Star Trek: Crusade
by Dead-Peon
Summary: Follow the brave crew of the U.S.S. Ulysses on their journey to recover a galaxy torn apart by war.
1. Prologue

Star Trek:  
  
Crusade  
  
Prologue  
  
Beta-Hydra star system, one hundred and fifty light years from Federation territory,  
  
Earth-calendar year 2256  
  
Stardate 8447.2  
  
The bridge rocked violently and the lights dimmed yet again as a fifth Klingon torpedo impacted on the already blackened hull of the U.S.S. [I]Achilles[/I].  
  
"Report!" Yelled Captain William Fox over the growing noise of incoming damage reports and sparking, smoking consoles. His once sleek, black hair was now a shaggy mess atop his head, a side effect of being violently thrown from the command chair as the first volley of Klingon missiles hit the Achilles . And his once pristine gold captain's shirt was marred with a massive tear over the left shoulder, under which, a deep cut was still oozing thick, red blood. Fox winced in pain as the ship did a fast turn to avoid more enemy fire.  
  
"All deflector shields down to twelve percent. Engineering reports a minor deuterium fuel pod leak, but repair teams are on the way. There is a hull breach on deck three, and microfractures are appearing on the outer hull of deck nine." Reported Commander Sonii, Achilles' science officer and resident Vulcan. His calm voice was almost eerie to Captain Fox, considering the danger the ship was in, and the horrible reports he was just ordered to read.  
  
"Captain!" Warned young Ensign Jones from the helm. Fox looked up long enough to see the Klingon warship once again coming around to fire on the crippled ship. He could clearly see the fully charged disrupter and missile bays of the enemy warship on the viewscreen, each one glowing a dangerous, unearthly red color, each one ready to rain death down on the Federation ship once again. Fox, like everyone else on board, knew that just once more strike from the Klingon vessel would mean instant death. It would come either from the direct impact of the weapons, the shock-waves that would occur from the ship's own death throes, or, worst of all, explosive decompression from being hurtled into space through a rent in the hull.  
  
"Signal the Klingons again," Fox ordered the communications officer, an older man named Seale, "Tell them we surrender."  
  
The comm. officer turned toward his console and began signaling Achilles' surrender over every subspace band he could think of. After a few long seconds, Seale turned from his console, a sullen look on his face, "No response on any frequency, Captain."  
  
Fox's shoulders slumped as far as they could without it being too painful. "It was a long shot, anyway." He muttered to himself, he knew very well that the Klingons almost never accepted surrender from their prey. Fox looked toward Lieutenant Broome manning the weapons console, "What is the status of our photon torpedo launchers?"  
  
"The initial attack completely destroyed tube one, but two has been nominally repaired, and ready to fire."  
  
"And phaser banks?"  
  
"Phasers are operational at forty percent."  
  
Fox muttered a curse under his breath. This was supposed to be a routine scanning mission of a recently discovered planet on the edge of Federation space. Achilles was only supposed to warp in, take initial readings of the planet, and warp out. The mission was supposed to be low risk, not even worthy of raising defensive shields.  
  
Oh, but how wrong they were. Immediately after Achilles warped into the system, a Klingon battle cruiser slipped from behind a nearby asteroid and opened fire, crippling the ship beyond any ability to respond with one volley. Fortunately, the deflector screens were raised before the second volley could hit, sparing the ship for at least a little while. But now, with the shields collapsing, Fox was forced to act. The Klingons weren't responding to any of the constant hails they were sending, and now they had weapons not even capable of scratching paint. He turned toward Sonii, and got up to walk over to his console.  
  
The sharp explosion of pain that suddenly burst forth in his shoulder nearly sent him to the floor in agony, but Fox mentally heaved it down, and resumed his course. Fox risked a quick glance over to his shoulder and stared in mute horror to see that half of his left torso was now a dull red, and it was slowly spreading. He remembered briefly a joke said by one of his teachers at the academy about the dangers of wearing a red operations shirt while in combat situations. Fortunately, Fox was in the command track, so he never had to worry about that...until now.  
  
"Sonii" the Captain calmly, albeit weakly, said to the Vulcan, who was clearly struggling to keep his terrified feelings from surfacing, "How far away from Beta-Hydra are we?"  
  
"Sensors show at least two hundred thousand kilometers."  
  
Fox turned toward Jones, working furiously at the navigation console, inputting the quick commands that moved the ship just out of the weapon's range of enemy vessel that was rapidly approaching.  
  
Achilles lurched once again as the Klingons fired off a quick disruptor shot that impacted the port warp nacelle.  
  
"Ensign Jones, set course toward the planet, maximum impulse power."  
  
"Aye, sir." The young officer replied, setting more commands and navigational solutions on her console.  
  
Fox went back over to his command chair. Black soot covered the entire upholstered seat. Fox took a few precious seconds to wipe off some of the dust with his good arm, which, more than anything else, embedded it more firmly into the seat. He then slowly sat back down.  
  
"Lieutenant Broome, shut down all weapons systems and put the power into the shield generators." Fox knew that with such low power, the boost to the shields would be only minimal, but it would hopefully give them at least a little more time. When Broome finished his work, the ship lurched forward with a boost of speed, shooting past the Klingon ship, barely missing the enemy hull by a scant few meters.  
  
And before Fox could prepare himself, Jones complied with her order, and the ship suddenly turned a near one hundred and eighty degree turn to the right, aligning itself with the distant planet. On the viewscreen, the view became a sickening shot of a turn, stars zooming by at an impossible angle, then, finally, Beta-Hydra appeared. To the captain, it looked like a tiny blue dot among the many millions of smaller white dots. He thought with a little dismay that, if it weren't for these terrible circumstances, he'd be exploring those stars, helping to better the galaxy's knowledge of any number of subjects. That was what Starfleet was for, after all, exploration. Not battle every other week. Unfortunately, with neighbors such as the Klingons, combat was a terrible, but necessary part of any starship commander's life.  
  
Suddenly, Achilles' comm. system activated, blaringly loud and a little grainy due to the damage to the receivers and speakers.  
  
"Federation cowards! You would rather run from an honorable battle than face death! The guardians of Gre'thor will be pleased to torment your souls for eternity!" Fox was familiar with the "subtle" Klingon attempts at goading their victims into attempting to fight back. Even for such a warmongering, savage race, they did have a code of honor, and that code did specify against all out slaughter, claiming it an unfair tactic.  
  
But these Klingons didn't seem to care about honor very much, fitting in perfectly with the Federation propaganda of the savage, ruthless Klingon.  
  
"How much farther until we reach the planet?" Fox asked, staring at the rapidly expanding sphere of the planet.  
  
"One minute, captain," Sonii responded, his calm demeanor returned once again.  
  
Achilles shook as the Klingons fired a long-distance shot with a torpedo; fortunately, the boost to the shields protected them. The lights on the bridge dimmed to near blackness as the energy compensators struggled to keep the shields and every other system operational. Then, after a shower of sparks from an exploding console behind him, the worst news a captain could hear in the heat of battle was reported to Fox by Sonii: "All shield generators have failed, Captain, there are more casualties coming into sickbay. Doctor Farrell reports that the last concussion was enough to kill five crewmembers already seriously injured."  
  
Fox sat dumbfounded at the news. At first he thought himself lucky that no one had been killed in this battle, but five deaths? And in one instant? Fox almost buried his head in his hands, until the pain in his shoulder reminded him of his predicament. He could already feel the dizziness associated with blood loss, but until he was dead on the floor, he would command this ship out of its mortal peril. The entire crew waited in silence over their dead shipmates for the rest of the minute. The seconds seemed to crawl by one after another, as if mocking the surviving crew, forcing them to experience the pain far longer than anyone should.  
  
"We have arrived at high orbit over Beta-Hydra." Sonii reported, cutting the silence like a knife.  
  
In a near daze, Fox was barely aware of his next order. "Sonii, order all nonessential personnel to evacuate the ship, take shuttles, escape pods, and transporters, whatever is necessary to get everyone off."  
  
The Vulcan complied, sending the message over the shipwide comm. On the viewscreen, the Klingon ship was inching closer to Achilles , their engines probably struggling to recharge their weapons as well as go as fast as they could toward the planet. They were probably also relishing the sight of a completely defenseless enemy right in their sights.  
  
"The Klingons will enter their optimum weapon's range in two minutes, thirty seconds," Sonii reported.  
  
Fox looked out at the viewscreen at both the rapidly escaping crew and at the even more rapidly approaching Klingons. He knew that if he didn't do anything, the Klingons would simply destroy Achilles, and then beam down to the planet and slaughter the survivors. He had to give his crew a fighting chance to live. Fox sat for what seemed like an eternity, looking almost like a heroic statue of a leader pondering the fate of entire nations.  
  
"Forty seconds until the Klingons enter weapons range." Sonii said.  
  
Fox sighed. There was only one thing he could do to give anyone a chance at life, and he knew it would mean doom for anyone on the ship, as well as the Klingons. And then he took the most commanding pose he could considering the circumstances, and began to recite the words he memorized on his first day of command, words he hoped to never have to speak:  
  
"Computer, initiate self destruct, authorization Fox-zero-aye-one."  
  
Sonii realized what was happening, looked up from his console to Fox, and followed suit, "Computer, code two self destruct, authorization Sonii-one- bee-seven."  
  
The other bridge crewmembers looked at each other for a second, daring each other to input the final code. In the end, little Ensign Suzie Jones spoke up, "Computer, code three self destruct, authorization Jones-two-alpha- six."  
  
The pleasant feminine computer voice began a series of programmed responses, "Self-destruct mode initialized. Standing by for final code of either computer destruct or warp-core breach."  
  
Achilles, like other starships, was equipped with two self-destruct modes, one that would destroy the ship's computer core, causing significant damage, but allowing enough of the ship to survive should Starfleet later recover the hulk for repair and analysis, but still leaving the ship unusable for any enemy boarding parties. The other mode was a warp-core breach, an uncontrolled antimatter explosion powerful enough to destroy any ship within a few hundred thousand kilometers.  
  
Fox watched as the last shuttles and escape pods left the doomed ship, he estimated that at least three hundred of the ship's crew would survive to tell the tale of the death of Achilles , leaving one hundred brave men and women to die a fiery death. These others would eventually form a ring of dust that would circle the planet for a few centuries. It was Fox's hope the Klingons would join them in the eternal ballet.  
  
"Computer, this is Captain William Fox, initiate a one minute warp core breach on my mark, destruct code four-one-one-beta-nine-delta-three."  
  
The computer's pleasant voice came again, "One minute until warp core breach, all personnel aboard are highly suggested to find a means of leaving this vessel. No further warnings will be given."  
  
Fox looked around at his brave crew one last time. The people so wrongly put into a terrible situation, so wrongly put to death for the hope that others of a different species would die. He was saddened to know that eventually, maybe in a century, their most noble of sacrifices would be nothing but statistics and footnotes in one of the many reports filed about this instance, if any reports were filed. For an instant, William Fox hated Starfleet for such injustice. Hated it for putting good people into terrible situations for negligible gain. What, a few bits of information to be scanned over, filed, and forgotten? Starfleet was nothing but a mass murder machine, and William Fox hated it.  
  
On the viewscreen, the Klingon ship was parked just a few hundred meters away from the dying ship, probably computing their optimal targets for the best results. Fox allowed himself a small smile; these brutes had no idea what was about to happen. He hoped they would suffer.  
  
Suffer long and terribly.  
  
Unfortunately, Fox's smile faded when he saw something he would never had ever suspected from such bastards of aliens.  
  
The Klingon ship slowly powered down its weapons, and fired its engines. It passed smoothly under Achilles, slowly accelerating toward an escape vector.  
  
Sonii reported: "It appears that the Klingons have discovered our plans, and are moving away, they are caught in the planet's gravity well, and cannot jump to warp. I estimate they will be able to go to warp in forty seconds."  
  
"Time to destruct?"  
  
Sonii turned toward Fox, a disturbing grin marred the normally stoic Vulcan's face, "Twenty-eight seconds."  
  
Fox regretted never getting to know his science officer better. He also noticed how many other crewmen were shocked to see the Vulcan smile. Some smiled with him, finding humor in the one scenario where humor was always nonexistent. In that short instant, Sonii was no longer a Vulcan, but a being just as human as the rest of them. Soon, others began to laugh and make some less-wholesome comments about certain alien's mothers. They were all laughing at the stupid Klingons and the one enemy they would never kill. In these last seconds, the crew was bonded in such a way that years of constant duty could never achieve. For a precious few moments, they were family. Even the captain laughed until the computer began the last verbal countdown.  
  
"Ten."  
  
Fox saw some of the crewmembers stop smiling and laughing, some looking around in horror, some in defiance of their fate.  
  
"Nine."  
  
Sonii stopped even smiling, and Fox noticed small tears running down his face.  
  
"Eight."  
  
Ensign Jones began crying like a child who had lost their parent in a crowded area.  
  
"Seven."  
  
Fox moved to touch his destroyed shoulder, his hand briefly passed over his ship's insignia on its way. His memories of his good, albeit short, Starfleet career rushed back into his thoughts. Maybe Starfleet wasn't so bad, after all. But those thought perished in his mind when he saw more and more officers, normally so cool under pressure, beginning to cry like children. Why did Starfleet do this to people?  
  
"Six."  
  
Fox looked at the ruins of his once beautiful bridge. He remembered how he originally ordered his own bridge officers to help the janitorial staff clean the bridge when the time came. They were good times, full of laughter and jest at those who couldn't properly handle an electro-vacuum, or those who slipped on a puddle of cleaning fluid. Fox knew those times would never happen again.  
  
"Five."  
  
Most of the crew was crying now. Fox couldn't help but join them.  
  
"Four."  
  
Fox looked at the viewscreen to see the Klingons running away as fast as possible. Cowards, he thought, abandoning their morals and dignity, the two things that made them proud, just for a chance at life.  
  
"Three."  
  
Some of Fox's tears hit his shoulder, causing intense flashes of pain. He hissed nearly comically loud, turning some of the crew's attention toward him.  
  
"Two."  
  
Fox began to feel...tired. He knew he had just doomed whoever was still on his ship and the Klingons on their vessel. He now regretted his decisions. He should have ordered his shields raised, he should have fought back, he should have ordered the entire crew off the vessel. And now they were looking at him, probably wondering why he hadn't. They probably thought him a vicious monster at this moment, worse than the Klingons. All because of damned Starfleet.  
  
"One."  
  
A sudden knot formed in the pit of William Fox's stomach. He didn't want to die, not here, not now. He wasn't even forty yet. There was so much to live for. Besides, the Klingons were leaving, they could survive. He could order everyone back aboard, they could effect repairs and go home. Home, and a continued mission. They could be a family. All he had to do was:  
  
"Com..."  
  
Captain William Fox never could complete his sentence, because, in that same instant, tons of matter and antimatter collided into each other, causing a massive explosion that instantly vaporized the ship around it, and everyone living in it. The shockwave expanded until it hit the fleeing Klingon ship, destroying its engines in an instant, and shoving the ship toward the planet's surface, to become a blazing fireball in the atmosphere of Beta-Hydra.  
  
Just seconds after the violent bang, the cloud of interstellar dust and gas that was the U.S.S. Achilles began to coalesce into a ring around the planet Beta-Hydra, there to stay for the next five centuries or so.  
  
The dawn broke on the surface of Beta-Hydra with an explosion in the heavens that made the sun seem like a small, flickering candle. Anyone who was looking up just as dawn broke would look down, only to realize that that one brief flash blinded him or her completely. Of the three hundred or so original survivors, only one hundred and seventy-five actually retained their sight that day.  
  
They all knew that their only hope of going home was vaporized in that explosion, and that no message to Starfleet would ever be received or responded to in their natural lifetimes. Eventually, the mindset of the survivors changed from one of sadness, to one of anger. To them, the Federation had abandoned them, it was a cruel, murderous monster, and they would make sure to teach that to anyone and everyone they could, starting with their children, and then to the first instances of civilization that would be forged on the surface of Beta-Hydra. The people vowed that as long as their ideals survived, Starfleet and the Federation would fall in the violent end it so rightly deserved. 


	2. Chapter 1

Star Trek:  
  
Crusade  
  
Chapter one:  
  
Stardate 53417.3 Earth Calendar year 2377  
  
Captain Martin Snyder stood proudly at the large windows of the commander's office overlooking the spacedock section of the Utopia Planitia starship repair facility on Mars. All around him buzzed the continuous activity of intense starship maintenance, and his three hundred and sixty degree window gave a spectacular view of it all. All around him, starships were constantly entering the facility, or leaving it. The actions were all done at slow impulse speeds, thanks to the ban of warp travel within a solar system, so the Captain could get a beautiful look at every ship as they traveled.  
  
He marveled at the gracefully aging Excelsior-class vessels, behemoths in their day, but only lightweights compared to some of Starfleet's most recent designs. Snyder stared in awe as a super-massive Galaxy-class ship lumbered out of one of the station's larger docks just to his right. Those ships were always an impressive sight to behold, even after seeing at least one docked here every day ever since the first one was built. The most marvelous thing about the Galaxy line was that, while admittedly huge, they never gave any sense of foreboding or fear when you saw one. They always seemed to radiate peace and exploration, the two ideals the Federation lived by.  
  
Four small ships left their collective docks and began a series of long, slow, and lazy maneuvers obviously intended to test some new or redesigned engine system. The ships were of the newer Saber-class, small and nimble, but extremely affective in times of war. He remembered when the prototype was built at that very dock. There were few civilian news anchors present at that time, considering the overall military application of the Saber in general. After years of constant war either with the Borg, the Dominion, or the Romulans, the people of the Federation were getting a little tired of it.  
  
Fortunately, it had been two years since the last shots were fired in the horrible Dominion war. It had been a blissful two years of peace and prosperity. Even the Romulans were slowly becoming friendlier toward the Federation. Though some, Snyder included, still held the shadowy doubt that the Romulan overtures were merely a precursor to some new treachery. The alliance with the Klingon Empire had never been stronger, and new planets were being brought into the Federation nearly every month.  
  
At least, that's what the public believed.  
  
Snyder, like all Starfleet and high-ranking Federation members, knew that, although this was a time of unparalleled peace, the effects of the war years still lingered on the Federation like a stagnating malignancy. Planets were still in desperate need of food and medical supplies, some were without power, and still others were completely lost to the Federation, as if they never existed. Snyder knew that the Federation Starfleet still had done nothing for these planets, in favor of programs dedicated to the rebuilding of the tattered fleet, and the restoring of those "core" worlds hardest hit by the war, Earth included. Billions of man-hours and uncounted resources were being used every day to help restore the image of the Federation and its Starfleet, and not a single ounce of it was being directed to those "lost worlds".  
  
Snyder inwardly sighed at that fact. So many resources being diverted to simple cosmetic problems. It seemed to him like if it wasn't Earth or Vulcan, and you weren't on a ship with an NCC registration, you didn't exist in Starfleet's eyes. Whenever he thought about that, it always seemed to dull the majesty he felt when he overlooked the operations of his base.  
  
Snyder noticed that the Sabers had completed their maneuvers and were heading back to their docks, which was his cue to go back to work. Ship supply requisitions and personnel transfer requests didn't read and approve themselves, you know. The captain had long ago set up a routine of watching a few ships come and go, do a little work, go back to the ships, and then work again until the day ended. It helped to keep him relaxed and stress-free, a luxury not many other station commanders could afford. Snyder set himself up in the most comfortable position his desk chair could afford him, and began picking at the half-meter high stack of padds on his desk.  
  
Upon reading the fifth request for twenty self-sealing stem bolt containers to docks one through nine, Snyder's desk comm. began to beep a low, but incessant sound meant to get his attention and make sure he stopped it as soon as possible. He kept a finger on his stopping point, to make sure he didn't have to go through the entire document again, and looked up. He dropped the padd when he saw the file being displayed. He had to stare at the screen for what seemed like an eternity before it finally registered what he was actually seeing. It was just one simple sentence, but one he would possibly never forget. It stated simply:  
  
Captain Martin Snyder, service number 087-551A, has been hereby relieved of the duty of Master of Operations at Utopia Planitia, and has been hereby reassigned the duty of captain of U.S.S. Ulysses, NCC 74944, effective immediately.  
  
Snyder neatly composed himself and tried to get back to work, but it was no use. All he wanted to do was whoop with unrestrained joy. He had waited practically his entire career for this moment. Ever since he graduated from the academy, he always was assigned the jobs most others would avoid like radioactive waste. Either the door operator at the giant starbase orbiting Earth, the maintenance supervisor aboard the U.S.S. Gorgon, or now most recently, commander of a ship repair facility. It seemed to Snyder that Starfleet just wanted Snyder as far away from starship command as possible. At least, until now.  
  
Just as Snyder was feeling his most euphoric, his comm. beeped once again. This time, he didn't hesitate to answer.  
  
"Captain Martin Snyder of the Federation starship Ulysses reporting." Snyder inwardly smiled at how official that title sounded.  
  
The image of Rear Admiral Shuraz, an aging Andorian, filled the screen. His constantly indignant expression was the stuff of legend. It was rumored that in the early days of his career, Shuraz had simply stared down a group of Romulan battle cruisers, forcing them to flee without a shot being fired. Unfortunately, for the observant person, that always-mad expression could be easily seen for the act it really was. It was common knowledge that an Andorian's antennae always revealed their mood, no matter how hard they tried to control them. The antenna had basically three different "moods": upright and alert for any of the positive emotions, rapidly twitching for agitation and nervousness, and straight back for outright angry.  
  
And unfortunately for Shuraz, that bit of knowledge always made his gruff attitude seem even hollower than it really was. Snyder could clearly see the older Andorian's blue stalks standing straight up.  
  
"Don't get too excited, Captain. You're not the first to be granted command of a starship."  
  
Snyder's smile withered at that comment.  
  
"Admiral Shuraz, you always had a knack for bursting ego bubbles when they were at their most delicate."  
  
"And believe me, that is a talent I am very proud of."  
  
"So, my good Admiral, what brings you to contact my lowly station?"  
  
The Admiral looked down for a moment, possibly reading some document or statement. He looked back up after only a moment.  
  
"Captain Martin Snyder, as you already know, you are now in command of one of the newest Starfleet vessels. It is the opinion of the Admiralty that you have displayed the necessary talents and skills required for starship command duty. Due to the extenuating circumstances regarding the mission, you will be allowed to select your entire command crew on your own, we will not assign one for you."  
  
"Wait a minute, "extenuating circumstances"? Are you implying that this is a secret mission?"  
  
"Incorrect, captain. In fact, this mission will probably be the most publicized since the Voyager mission just a few months ago."  
  
"May I ask what this mission entails, then?"  
  
"As you know, Starfleet has spent the greater part of these last two years rebuilding only the core Federation worlds, effectively ignoring the plights of the others, the so-called "lost worlds", especially the ones on the extreme borders."  
  
"You mean."  
  
"Yes, Captain. Starfleet finally has enough manpower and resources to initiate a project dedicated to reestablishing contact with worlds either lost or overlooked during the conflicts with the Dominion. This will be officially known as Operation: Recover, and will entail the constant vigilance of a small fleet of ships. Your secondary objective is to resupply those worlds desperately in need of assistance. You will extend every olive branch available to make sure the people know the Federation still cares."  
  
Snyder couldn't believe his ears. After so long in desperation of those lost worlds, their salvation was finally on its way, and he was to be part of the team that would be responsible!  
  
The Admiral continued, "Your ship will arrive at dock twelve at your station in approximately seventy-two hours. You will be expected to be ready to leave as soon as it arrives. You will begin crew assignment as soon as possible. A list of available candidates will be sent to your office aboard the Ulysses per your arrival. Admiral Shuraz out." With that, the blue-skinned Admiral's image winked away, leaving Snyder's screen once again black.  
  
It wasn't long before the immediate need to whoop in glee came over Snyder once again. And if it wasn't for the stack of padds still on his desk, he would have. 


	3. Chapter 2

Crusade ch. 2  
  
All his life, Solvek had been unable to properly med itate like everyone in his family. While their meditations brought peaceful, calming feelings to them, he was always left with a feeling of cold dread and anxiety. Ever since he was old enough to learn the strict mental disciplines of Vulcan society, he always either progressed at a much slower rate than the other children, or, in some rare cases, he didn't even progress at all. It was as if he never had the abilities in the first place. And now, nearly fifty years after he began his first meditation, he ended this most recent one like every other meditation in the past...with an ear-shattering scream.  
  
The sound awoke everyone sleeping in the same hall as the distressed Vulcan. No matter how hard anyone tried, Solvek's meditation-ending screams were impossible to get used to. Even other Vulcans found it unsettling. Once, in his youth, his father had ordered him to meditate somewhere outside the family residence, in an effort to give at least some measure of peace to the household. Unfortunately, it ended with a trio of distressed Vulcan guards escorting Solvek home, reprimanding him for disturbing the peace during a meditation hour.  
  
Every respectable physician on Vulcan had at one time tried to ascertain why Solvek had such uncomfortable cycles of mediating. Every possible test was run, and they all came back with the same result: inconclusive. It seemed as if the best medical machines on Vulcan were as confused about Solvek's condition as everyone in his family seemed to be. Ever since the last test, Solvek just pursued his normal meditation cycle, screams and all.  
  
Entering Starfleet helped to alleviate some of the discomfort, the rigid schedule left little time for meditation or any other Vulcan mental discipline. In his earliest days at the academy, the sudden change in schedules affected Solvek in a way he never thought possible. Whereas most Vulcans find the lack of meditation and orderly lifestyles uncomfortable and slightly disturbing, Solvek actually felt relaxed and comfortable, as if he had just taken a long rest after a grueling physical exam.  
  
When Solvek sent a message home about the fortunate state of affairs, his family could not express more concern. They warned him that, yes, foregoing meditation for a short time can cause positive side effects, but caution must be exercised. The effects of long-term meditation deprival could be disastrous. Solvek took the advice, and took steps to make sure he meditated more often, much to the chagrin of the other cadets in the same room.  
  
Solvek graduated from Starfleet command third in his class, bested by an ambitious Human and an overly eager Bolian. But his high rank was enough to get him assigned to the U.S.S. Argo; a ship normally assigned for long- range exploration, but became a frontline vessel in the Dominion war. The Argo was nearly destroyed in the final assault on Cardassia; fortunately, a Cardassian warship defended the Argo until a rescue tug arrived. There were no fatalities thanks to the brave Cardassians.  
  
At the end of the war, Solvek took an extended leave on Vulcan, which eventually became an early retirement. For the past two years, Solvek had been studying some of the lesser-known meditation techniques under the tutelage of a small cadre of Vulcan masters in an ancient temple somewhere in Vulcan's wilds. His efforts were largely unsuccessful in the beginning, sometimes actually leaving Solvek in a state of shock for hours. But, as he delved deeper into some of the most extreme depths of ancient Vulcan meditation, he found one that actually sort of relaxed him, but still ended with a shrill cry. Two years since he had begun, Solvek and the masters had become increasingly agitated at that one fact.  
  
In his spare time, Solvek published no less than three papers on theoretical application of quantum singularities as a type of warp reactor, much like the Romulans employed for their own ships. Some dismissed his ideas as frivolous and useless, preferring to expand current warp theory. But a select few realized the potential of his ideas, and frequently sent him letters asking this question or that. Sometimes, Solvek would check his mail file on the only terminal in the temple to find it flooded with requests for appearances, lectures, and the odd request to join a Federation research group based on Andor. Naturally, he respectfully declined every request.  
  
The day began like all others, a loud cry waking every other Vulcan at the temple. Solvek had recently timed his morning meditations so he could end it in time with the normal wakeup call of the others, so as not to disturb the peace, and to wake up the few whom chose to ignore the call. Solvek sat panting on the hard floor of the meditation room as the other masters began to slowly file in. Some spared a glance at him, but quickly turned away when he looked toward them. Others seemed to avoid him like the Phyrox plague; sometimes entering the room slowly, to only shuffle as fast as they respectfully could away from Solvek. Solvek found it odd that for such a race of refined qualities and intellect, Vulcans could act so childishly sometimes.  
  
When most of the masters had entered the meditation room to start their routines, Solvek quietly exited, leaving them to their peace. This was the time he normally would check his daily summons, and refuse them all. The walk to the terminal was brisk and lengthy. The only piece of advanced technology in the temple was kept well away from the proper grounds, to keep the young ones from distractions. Solvek entered the small room where the device was kept, and quietly thumbed the power on.  
  
The terminal hummed to life, and soon the Vulcan IDIC symbol appeared on the small, flat screen directly in front of him. Solvek pushed a few more buttons until his personal mail file appeared. Solvek's eyes narrowed when he saw the number of messages that appeared on screen: one. When he checked it, he was surprised to find that the person who sent it was a member of Starfleet...Captain Martin Snyder it said on the file. On it was just a simple request:  
  
Commander Solvek of Vulcan. Your early retirement from Starfleet has been overruled. A council of Admirals feels that it is in the best of the Federation's interest if you once again return to active duty as soon as possible. Because of that, you have been assigned to the position of Engineer's mate aboard the U.S.S. Ulysses, NCC 74944. You will be expected to be ready for departure at 0800 hours standard Vulcan time tomorrow. A shuttle will pick you up from your current position and transfer you to Ulysses at that time. Thank you for your cooperation.  
  
Captain Martin Snyder  
  
USS Ulysses, Commanding Officer  
  
Solvek had to read the simple text message twice to get a full understanding of its contents. If he were human, his expression would have been one of sheer horror and shock. Fortunately, his higher Vulcan instincts prevailed, and kept all of his emotions down to a controlled level. Still, he wanted nothing more than to smash the terminal and seek personal, violent revenge on the idiot commander whom had so rudely interrupted his life.  
  
In as much of an exasperated huff as a Vulcan could achieve, Solvek rushed out of the terminal room, his white meditation robes billowing out behind him. He didn't stop to pay respect to any of the passing masters, nor did he display the traditional moment of reflection and silence that came at the temple every other hour. He was in a blind rush, not caring for a moment that he was quite literally turning his back on hundreds of years of tradition. All he wanted to do was get back to his quarters before he screamed again, this time very voluntarily.  
  
Unfortunately, a master was waiting at the door to Solvek's Spartan living quarters. He was standing in a posture that suggested disappointment and regret. It was a posture Solvek had seen many times around him in his stay at the temple.  
  
The master was the first to speak, "I have heard of your sudden change in behavior ever since you left our terminal room."  
  
Solvek was in no mood to start a long conversation, but when a master addressed you, it was proper to respond, "I received a rather unsettling message from Starfleet today."  
  
"What were the contents of the message, if I may be so bold?"  
  
"My stay here is ended, master. I have been put back into service by the Starfleet Admiralty, and I fear this time I may never be able to return here for any extended period for a very long time."  
  
The master's face turned as sympathetic as he would allow it, "I am sorry to hear that news. I am also sorry that we have been unable to cure your unfortunate affliction. I hope that your travels in space can help you find your answer." With that, the master turned slowly on his heel and walked away from Solvek at a carefully managed pace.  
  
Solvek was quite ready to explode with repressed emotion. He was making so much progress with his meditation, and Starfleet had to assert its will over his at the worst possible time. What was so important that Starfleet needed him? Besides, his assignment was already a lowly one, fit for any second-year ensign. Why was he so important?  
  
He opened the heavy wooden door to his quarters slowly, a vain attempt at prolonging the time he would spend at the temple. And then he shuffled like a child over to his dusty Starfleet footlocker stuffed away at the far corner of the small room, as far away from him as possible during his stay here. Solvek stared at it for some time before he was distracted by a loud rapping sound at his door. He turned around to see a small group of masters crowded around his door, all of them staring at him intently.  
  
The lead master spoke first. "We are all quite uncomfortable with the aspect of you leaving the temple for a new assignment with Starfleet, young one. You have not yet completed your tasks here with us, and you are still plagued by your nightmarish meditations. We advise you to consider staying here."  
  
Solvek wanted so much to begin spouting general Starfleet rules concerning duty and regulations, about how it wasn't his choice, but he knew the masters would have none of it. Solvek and the masters both knew that he would probably never set foot on the temple grounds again. Solvek only stared back with a defeated look that explained everything to the masters.  
  
"It is settled, then," the leader softly spoke, "Your time here is ended, your tutelage is over. You will be expected to vacate your quarters as soon as possible, and head for the starport." The master gave the traditional Vulcan hand salute, "Live long, Solvek, and prosper." And with that, the entire group left Solvek alone in quarters that were no longer his.  
  
The transport shuttle landed on the docking port at the exact time that had been listed on the summons. Solvek was wearing his uniform once again, which, because of the rigors of temple life, fit a little too big for him. But no matter how he looked, one fact was certain, he was back in Starfleet, and would probably be so until the end of his days.  
  
Solvek calmly set foot on the open door to the shuttle as soon as it opened, and took one last look at the temple that had been his home for so long. He said a private good-bye, both to the temple and to his old life, and finally entered the shuttle. An attendant brought in his footlocker with a small antigrav unit. When Solvek had found a seat, and everything was locked down, the shuttle lifted from the temple and blasted into space. 


	4. Chapter 3

Crusade Ch3.  
  
"...And as we look forward to the future of our grand United Federation of Planets, we can never forget the sacrifices and pain those brave men and women had to endure to make sure that we would have such a future. We must never forget those many lives lost in the horrible conflict with the Dominion, nor should we forget those lost on simple exploration missions. Each and every one of those brave souls paved the way for your bright new future; make sure you never forget them. I hope you will take their legacy with you as you begin your own trek through the stars. Thank you."  
  
Cadet Jacob Norman did all he could to keep from fidgeting like a distressed rabbit as he stood at attention listening to the recorded message sent by the president of the Federation. Ever since the end of the war, the president had always sent one of these things to that year's graduating cadets. And they were all alike: long, drawn out, and boring.  
  
Norman had always hated these pompous and useless ordeals, and these long speeches always seemed to reinforce his hatred. Ever since he was seven years old at his elementary school's honors student's recognition ceremony, and the principal talked for nearly two hours straight, he had always hated these things. The whole idea of standing still for hours on end while people he never even knew existed gave long speeches on the future and politics and all kinds of other garbage just made his skin crawl. Why did people insist on going through these things?  
  
To Norman, the explanation was simple: people enjoy pain. That had to be it. Somewhere in each and every being's deepest psyche, they all enjoyed just a little bit of torment. And these ceremonies were always filled with enough pain to satisfy even a Klingon.  
  
Fortunately, Norman had endured this one last ceremony with at least passable colors. As the message ended, every cadet did a sharp turn from the large screen that projected the president's address, to the high-seated podium that every speaker had stood behind for the last three and a half hours.  
  
Three hours, thirty-one minutes and fifteen seconds to be exact, thought Norman as he completed his turn.  
  
At the podium, the dean of Starfleet academy was standing in as much of a dignified pose at the portly man could muster. His Starfleet uniform was practically bursting at the seams from having to squeeze in so much heavy fat cells. Norman had always wondered why this man had never even spent an infinitesimal amount of time at the academy's gym, to at least give his uniform some breathing room.  
  
But Norman had to admonish himself; that man probably didn't go to the gym because he was so busy making sure your sorry posterior stayed healthy and educated during your stay here.  
  
The dean looked over each and every student before beginning the last speech of the ceremony:  
  
"Cadets, I have seen each and every one of you grow from bright, hopeful first-year cadets into the future of Starfleet as we know it. I remember going over all of your files as you all paraded off of the shuttle that dropped you off here. I remember personally helping you solve some of life's most difficult problems while you adjusted to life here. I also remember some of the discipline I have been forced to give out to some of you who refused to listen." The dean looked directly at Norman at that comment.  
  
Once, Norman and a few friends thought it would be a good idea to steal a bit of some of the gelatin dessert being served at a dignitary ball one year. The mission was a success until Norman made the mistake of bumping into the dean while he tried to sneak out of the dining hall with an armful of gelatin. Norman would never forget seeing that pristine white uniform suddenly tarnished with a huge pink stain that covered the dean's entire gigantic midsection.  
  
Norman and his friends spent the next three months spending their free time cleaning dishes and floors at the very hall they tried their plan. He also remembered that time because, while he was busy scrubbing a particularly nasty pan, another cadet ran into the kitchen shouting that the war with the Dominion had begun. Norman had spent quite some time trying to calm the cadet down, and to tell him everything she had heard. It wasn't long before the academy held emergency bombing drills just for the unlikely event the war actually reached Earth.  
  
Those drills probably saved Norman's life, because, during a field trip to downtown San Francisco, the Breen attacked the city. Norman took semi charge of the cadets along with the teacher that had been escorting them, and made sure each of the cadets and even some civilians take cover. Fortunately, nobody was killed in their little party, but the devastation to the city was enormous.  
  
In the months after the attack, Norman, just like every other cadet, had to adjust to the new course the academy was heading toward. Because the war was so taxing on lives, classes were accelerated as well as just cancelled. Norman's second year was by far the fastest year of his life in terms of academics.  
  
But as the war slowly turned in favor of the Federation and her allies, all the classes turned back to normal, and Norman had to once again sit through warp-field theory 101 for a full term.  
  
The dean looked away from Norman slowly and continued his speech, "I know that your years here have been unlike any other cadet will ever have to go through again. The horrors of war actually reached up to the very doorstep of this facility, but, through the grace of providence and fortune, this place made it through. And I thank you all for your fine work in making sure it will stay that way for all future generations of Starfleet graduates."  
  
The dean looked over the group of cadets again before taking a long breath and began to speak slowly, "Graduates of this year, congratulations. You are all now members of the Federation Starfleet."  
  
The roar from the cadets nearly deafened everyone in the entire hall, and it lasted for quite some time. Norman made sure he contributed to the riotous noise, shouting and screaming at the top of his lungs, and jumping around with some more exited cadets. The only people who weren't contributing were a small band of Vulcan cadets who were all huddled together, all making what looked like derogatory looks at the other, more joyful cadets. Norman could tell, though, that those looks were all just a mask for the irrepressible joy they felt along with the entire crowd for their graduation.  
  
The group of parents and Starfleet personnel who were in attendance began to add their noise to the clamor when they began to clap respectfully. Eventually, though, some proud parents began to whistle and shout, "That's my son/daughter/offspring!" The entire show of unrestrained joy and passion lasted for nearly five whole minutes before it began to quiet down in favor of unending rounds of holopic-taking and congratulation hugs/handshakes between parents and cadets. Even the Vulcan group began to talk with a group of older Vulcans, Norman saw.  
  
Then, the worst part of any ceremony began for Norman. The one thing that made standing still for hours seem like a cakewalk. The one thing in the entire universe that could possibly make even a Borg run away in fear for his life: his parents.  
  
"There's my honey buns!" shouted a female voice from the back of the crowded room. Norman was always surprised at how his mother's voice was able to slice through any noise, no matter how loud, like a laser.  
  
"Yeah, I see him!" Norman's father joined in. While not as loud, his father could project his voice with the best of them.  
  
Jacob Norman learned long ago not to run from the coming onslaught of hugs and pictures, or it would only get worse the longer they had to wait. Within seconds, the duo of slightly overweight humans, adorned in classic colorful Hawaiian-print shirts and khaki shorts nearly trampled their son to the floor. But that might have been preferable to the crushing hug his mother gave him, and the unnecessarily rough noogie his father made him endure.  
  
"I can't believe you made it, son!" Mrs. Norman cried in joy, her obvious tears smearing her makeup, "We are so proud of you!"  
  
"Yeah, son," Mr. Norman said, "We are really proud. Can you believe it, our own son in Starfleet, hopping galaxies, spreading the name of Norman across the stars like that Captain...uh, Kook?"  
  
"Kite?" Mrs. Norman tried.  
  
"I know, Kooky! Captain John Kooky, right, son?"  
  
"Actually, dad, it's Captain Kirk, James Kirk. And I don't think I'll be "spreading the name" like him anytime soon."  
  
"Aw, you know I'm just messin' with ya, boy. I'm just so proud of you! Now c'mon, let your mother take some pics for your aunts and uncles back home."  
  
Jacob agreed hastily, wanting this to be over as soon as possible. He loved his parents very much, but like any child, knew that any extended period with them in an open place was just asking for trouble. The holopic session lasted for a short time, usually with Jacob, a friend, and at least one parent doing some pose that Mrs. Norman was sure a relative would love.  
  
Fortunately, the picture-taking went faster than Jacob thought possible, and soon he was standing inside his cadet's quarters, looking over things before packing them into a bag nearly the size of his bed. His parents had retired to their hotel room and were waiting there for him to arrive so they could share one last family meal before he was assigned to his first ship.  
  
Jacob looked over a picture of himself and a few other cadets after their first EVA test. All of them looked disheveled and sick, but all looked triumphant in their own right. Another picture showed Jacob and his onetime romance, Christine Woods. They were an item for about six months before she decided that the Starfleet way of life was not for her, and transferred out. The last he heard of her was that she was pursuing artistically minded studies on Risa.  
  
Jacob stuffed every picture and banner of Starfleet and stuffed them into any available space he could find in his bag. Eventually, he had packed every momento and item he had collected over his four years at Starfleet academy into a single bag, leaving the room as stark and bland as it had when he first entered it. The only thing out of place in this empty room was a lightly beeping padd.  
  
That's funny, Norman thought as he went to pick it up. He wasn't supposed to be notified about what his first assignment was until later tomorrow, and besides, padds outside of official areas were not a common sight. Norman picked up the padd and looked over the text. At first, he wasn't quite sure what it was, just a bunch of senseless forwarding addresses and numbers that went on for at least six pages. Norman concluded that, if anything, this was one of the longest chain letters in history sent to him by a still playful cadet.  
  
But those thoughts changed when he saw the bottom of the text message. After the pages of meaningless names and numbers, a full message was now scrolling across his padd. It started out with a typical congratulatory note by the writer about his graduation, and what looked like a half- hearted attempt at idle chatter, which Jacob quickly scrolled past.  
  
Until the very end. Whoever wrote the message said they already knew where his first assignment was going to be, and that it was going to be a wonderful first voyage for any young and upcoming career Starfleet hopeful. Norman looked over the paragraph to see if they revealed this mysterious "wonderful opportunity", but the writer remained artfully quiet. Then the message went serious. The writer spoke of concerns about the future of Federation security and how Starfleet was now more vulnerable than ever to an outside infiltration. The message said that there was only one hope for the future. An organization built to fight fire with fire. It was a group that had turned the tables on countless hostile invasions long before they threatened a single soul. It was a group that had been around since the founding of the Federation, and would last until the bitter end.  
  
The last line of the paragraph asked: Are you interested in joining Section 31? 


	5. Chapter 4

Crusade ch4  
  
Captain Snyder watched as the last vestiges of his hand picked crew filed into the common room of Dock twelve at the Utopia Planitia shipyards. Most of them were all crowded around one another, making small talk and the like. He noticed a few old acquaintances meeting each other again, as well as some new friendships already forming. He stayed up on a slightly raised platform, which was a way of politely refusing to engage in any serious discussions, while making him just tall enough to watch the turbolifts as more people filled the room.  
  
During the last three days since his new assignment, Snyder had been slaving over as many crew reports he could get his hands on almost immediately after his ship arrived at this dock. He made sure to get the best he could, concerning the nature of the mission and the time constraints. Fortunately, his task wasn't as difficult as might have thought; the full crew compliment of the Ulysses was only one hundred and twenty people, so the actual picking of the crewmen went pleasantly fast.  
  
Snyder was especially pleased when he saw the first Vulcan step out of a turbolift. He recognized the face of lieutenant Solvek, a brilliant warp theorist and a pretty good engineer. Too bad he had that one little "tick" that kept him away from Starfleet these last two years. His talents would have been greatly appreciated.  
  
**********  
  
Solvek stepped out of the turbolift that brought him to the common room at Dock twelve. He was privately astonished to see what looked like the entire ship's crew in attendance, at least one hundred people. Solvek made his way through the crowd, intent on finding the commander of this mission and tell him just how big of a mistake he had made in taking Solvek from his place at the temple. For all anyone knew, that simple act might have caused him serious psychological harm, if not any other serious medical problems that might emerge over the course of the mission.  
  
Unfortunately, before Solvek could get too close to the captain, the crowd suddenly tightened around Solvek, crushing him and an unlucky crewman behind him, against the wall. When Solvek looked up, the captain was standing on the same raised platform, and was trying to quiet the crew down. The assembled crew slowly turned their attention to Snyder as he began to address the whole crew for the first time.  
  
"Good morning, shipmates," he began with an extremely casual manner, "As you know, I am Captain Martin Snyder, and I will be your commanding officer for this new mission. Starfleet gave me the rare opportunity to select each and every one of you for each of the ship's many positions. All of you are an essential part of the whole that is the staff of our new vessel. For many of you, this is your first voyage," the Captain looked at a few people Solvek didn't recognize, "And for others, this will just be another day on the job," this time, Captain Snyder looked directly at Solvek and then quickly moved his eyes away, "But you are all equals in my book. For me, though I have a pretty distinguished career, this is my first actual command of a starship, so I'm just about as green as some of you are." That comment brought some chuckles from a few crewmen.  
  
Solvek, defeated for now in his plans to rid himself of this completely undesirable position, just relaxed as much as he could considering he was nearly crushed against a wall, and listened to the rest of the Captain's address.  
  
**********  
  
Jacob Norman suddenly found it very hard to breathe when the captain began his speech. It took his senses some time to regain their composure before he realized that he was nearly flattened against a wall, with a very heavy Vulcan standing between him and oxygen. Norman did all he could to try and pry the Vulcan away from him, but the combined strength of the crowd as well as the alien's weight made it an almost impossible task. When Norman tried the diplomatic approach, deaf pointed ears met his overtures for air. With all other options exhausted, Norman just adjusted himself for a long time without a lot of air and began to weather the storm.  
  
Norman had spent some time looking over the padd concerning his entry into Section 31. Even during his last meal with his family he thought about it, with the effect of making every conversation short and generally unappealing. Norman's parents probably thought he was just sad over the prospect of leaving for so long after just finishing training, so they didn't pry too much, thankfully.  
  
Ever since he got the letter, Norman had been weighing the pros and cons. On the pro side, he would be securing the future of the Federation by means that no ordinary person might have dreamed of. On the con side, he would have to forsake some of the values and ideals he held dear just to accomplish the mission. It was that thought that scared Norman most. He always had thought of himself of at least a moral citizen. Sure, he was no angel, but nobody really was. But some of these missions would require him to go so low on his moral scale, and he wondered if he could ever bring himself to do that.  
  
One of the oddest things about the message was that, while it asked if he was interested, it didn't explain how he would be able to respond with his yes or no answer. Norman thought for a while if the return path was in the forwarding section, but, to his surprise, nearly half of the names listed on the addresses were of people either Norman had known or met, even the sender was from Norman's own address at the academy! He could tell when he saw it that it was just a security measure, not a puzzle or riddle that would show him how to respond. He knew that such a shady group probably really used those names to send the message in a full loop from his room to his room, so any potential hackers or sneakers would either overlook the message or dismiss it as normal family communication.  
  
Either way, Norman still had no idea if he wanted to join Section 31or not. He eventually decided to wait until an easier way to solve his dilemma presented itself.  
  
**********  
  
Captain Snyder had been waiting for this moment ever since his new ship had arrived at dock twelve three days ago. Before anyone arrived at the common room, Snyder had dimmed the lights overlooking the dock as well as putting a large curtain over the window that provided a great portside view of the entire facility. He wanted to surprise everyone with the new ship at once.  
  
When the ship first arrived, Snyder thought to himself that there could not be an uglier ship in the known galaxy. But, after hours of seeing it being fully stocked and refitted while he chose his crew, the ship grew on him, just as it would to the crew.  
  
"Everyone," he began, "I would like to now introduce you all to the last member of the new team." It had taken Snyder six hours to come up with the right line to introduce the ship to the crew. And with a mighty heave, Snyder yanked on the rope that held the curtain at bay, and immediately after, punched the wall console that turned on the lights at dock twelve, revealing the ship in her full glory, a few startled work bees moved away from the ship as fast as possible, trying not to obstruct the view.  
  
Some crew were immediately shocked, as witnessed by the sudden intake of air by some of the crew. Other stared in wonder and awe, while some, a large group actually, looked on with an attitude that was far from pleased.  
  
The ship that was resting in front of them looked like some demented child had taken model kits of three distinguished Starfleet ships and jammed them together, forming a completely new, and ugly, ship. The most obvious parts of the ship were the primary hull of an Intrepid-class vessel, onto which, an Akira-class engine strut manifold had been attached, and to top it all off, instead of modern Starfleet warp nacelles, the long monsters of an Excelsior-class ship filled the role of warp nacelles. And under the Intrepid primary hull, the secondary hull of that same Excelsior had been attached, making the ship appear to have a distended "belly". Snyder had heard once that this kind of shipbuilding technique was called "kitbashing", or, the systematic cannibalizing of two or more ships to build one for a specific set of mission parameters.  
  
Snyder reminded himself that, if it weren't for kitbashed ships, in all their ugliness and ungainly specifications, such desperate times like the Dominion war and the first Borg invasion would have been total losses. These ships commanded at least some respect.  
  
Fortunately, most of the crew was mannered enough to keep their opinions quiet about the ship. There were a few who showed their displeasure with obvious facial expressions, and others who made sly remarks and derisive comments about the general shape of the ship, all of which were not lost on Snyder's ears. Each comment and movement slowly lessened his hope that the crew would eventually accept the new ship.  
  
**********  
  
Solvek stared at the totally abhorrent design of a ship that was proudly displayed in front of him. Fortunately, his higher Vulcan teachings taught him to keep his opinions to himself, for he would not affect any kind of ship changes by simple outbursts alone.  
  
Unfortunately, the small human caught behind him had other ideas.  
  
"What kind of monster is that?" Yelled Norman at the top of his lungs, which was at least twice as loud as the previous noise of the crowd. That outburst turned just about everyone toward Solvek's direction, including the captain. Solvek stood as still as he could. Surely they did not think he was the one who said such a rude and immature comment.  
  
"Ensign," Captain Snyder began calmly, at least Solvek was relieved to know they didn't think he said that, but the childish human behind him, "I was not aware that your opinion was important enough for all of us to hear."  
  
Norman turned a deep red at the Captain's retort, but the huge Vulcan kept that fact hidden. He mentally kicked himself for that outburst. He was a Starfleet officer now, and should show some maturity. Norman regained as much of a composure as he could and simply replied, "Yes, sir."  
  
The captain continued his speech, "You will all be assigned quarters on the hour, and we will depart once everyone reports to their duty station. I will brief you all over the finer details of our mission when we are well underway and settled in."  
  
And with that, Captain Snyder stalked off the raised floor section and went straight for the turbolift, so he could be aboard his ship before anyone else.  
  
**********  
  
It took at least three hours before the whole crew was shuttled or transported to the ship and they had all settled into their quarters. Norman had a small bedroom connected to an equally small bathroom, but all were adequate for his needs. After all, his duty assignment was the day shift tactical officer, which meant he would be spending most of his time there with the rest of the command crew as they went about their mission. Norman didn't stop to think for a moment how odd it was to have such a lowly ensign assigned to one of the most dangerous positions on a starship. Just one wrong button pushed and BOOM! The entire cache of photon torpedoes would explode, taking the ship with it.  
  
Norman also didn't notice a small crate sitting at the foot of his bed, either...at least, until he tripped over it on his way to the window. With a loud "OOF!" and a sharp thud, Norman was lying on the floor face first.  
  
"What the...?" He asked, slowly reaching for the box. Outside it seemed like a normal small cargo box for personal items and such. It didn't even have a latch mechanism. But Norman realized why it didn't need one. All it contained was a single padd, with a short text message addressed to him on it.  
  
Dear Ensign Jacob Norman,  
  
We are extremely pleased to note your interest in joining the thirty-first section of the Starfleet charter. As you know, Section 31 is an organization designed for the explicit purpose of protecting the Federation from any and all enemies that provide a larger security risk than any normal institution could combat. If you are fully committed to the ideals of protecting the Federation, note your interest by placing this letter atop your bed at your next port, and we will do the rest. If you are not, then simply throw this letter into the refuse and forget it ever existed.  
  
We hope you will make the right choice,  
  
CS Davis, head of Section 31  
  
Norman didn't know just how to respond at that moment to the letter, so he simply placed it back in the box and placed it into the empty closet, which was later filled with his other clothes and belongings that didn't seem to fit anywhere else in the room.  
  
**********  
  
Solvek found his junior officer's quarters quite satisfying. While much larger than his room at the temple, he still could keep it as sterile and free from distractions as his old room. The only complaint he had was the softness of the bed. For the past two years he had slept on a simple slab of wood softened by a single layer of thin cloth. This was the only change that Solvek would have to endure.  
  
Solvek only stayed in his new quarters for a few minutes, packing some things and arranging others in places where he would need them. When he finished, he walked from his quarters and began familiarizing himself with the route he would take every day to engineering. Along the way he was stopped several times by confused junior officers about the whereabouts of certain systems and places, which Solvek had to admit to having less than perfect knowledge about this design.  
  
It took Solvek only one minute to get from his quarters to engineering, an acceptable timeframe. When he got there, he noticed that there was only one other person in the large room, the chief engineer, Brian Denning. He was a rather large human, with short dark hair and a quite becoming earring on his right ear. Solvek recognized it as a Bajoran earring, but what was it doing on a human?  
  
Denning looked up from his console and noticed Solvek staring at his one piece of adornment.  
  
"You like it?" he asked with a very calm demeanor, "It was my wife's idea."  
  
"Oh, so you have a Bajoran wife?" Interspecies marriages were becoming more prevalent ever since the end of the war, so it was not news that particularly shook Solvek.  
  
"Actually, I had a wife," the engineer replied, hanging his head low for a moment, "Elana Traynil, first officer aboard a Bajoran cargo ship. It was destroyed by the Dominion just before the war, claiming that the vessel was 'too far off the projected course'."  
  
"I am sorry."  
  
"No, it's alright. I was on the ship that destroyed the Dominion cruiser that attacked her ship. I made sure that we gave as much mercy to those Dominion bastards as they gave to her." The human looked toward Solvek for a moment, a flash of anger momentarily marred them, but it was gone in an instant, "We beamed aboard a piece of the ship after the battle as a personal request. I have it in my quarters now."  
  
"But why would you have such a grisly reminder of such a terrible pain in your life?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's just a way to remind myself that Starfleet exists for one purpose, to make sure that tragedies like my wife's never happen again."  
  
Solvek offered as much condolences as he could before bidding Denning a good day and walked over to his station across from him. They both worked until Denning spoke again.  
  
"Hey, I never got your name."  
  
"My name is Solvek, sir." He said without looking from his console.  
  
"It's gonna be nice working with you, Solvek, I just have a feeling."  
  
Solvek personally smiled at that. Humans constantly talked of their feelings as if it were some kind of ESP. If only they had an idea of what true mental prowess was about. Solvek cringed at that; he didnt know what true mental prowess was about, either.  
  
**********  
  
Captain Snyder stood alone on the bridge, staring at the viewscreen. He had even forsaken looking at his quarters for the chance at being the first to look upon the new bridge.  
  
Everything he knew a starship bridge should have was there, the center seat, a helm console in the front, and twin consoles behind his chair for the tactical and operations officers. Of course, there were other things on the bridge, a science station, the master systems display on the back wall, and of course, the dedication plaque.  
  
Snyder looked toward the small brass plate, and walked up to it. On it was imprinted the normal information that such a plaque should have: USS Ulysses, Noble Class, launched stardate 51531.5, and the listing of the officers and design team responsible for the birth of the vessel. And there, at the very bottom was the traditional quote that the designers felt embodied the design of the ship. Snyder ran his hand over the small line of text, sounding it out under his breath:  
  
"The only light in the darkness is hope."  
  
There was always some hope left in the universe, no matter who tried to stomp it down. And this ship was going to bring it to them whether they liked it or not. 


	6. Chapter 5

Crusade ch5  
  
Snyder was already at his command seat by the time the first crewmembers started to file in one at a time. Snyder had taken only a brief time to go to his quarters to take a quick sonic shower and change into a new uniform before he went back to the bridge. He had already begun to get the feeling for the ship, how it looked, sounded and felt beneath him. He still hadn't checked out his ready room, which was, thankfully, only a short walk from his seat. All in all, Snyder was making himself feel quite at home on this ship. Sure, after spending a few years on a large orbital station, a ship could feel a little cramped, but Snyder was sure he could get used to it.  
  
The turbolift door to Snyder's left opened with a hiss, which startled him for a second. He looked up to see Ensign Norman slowly walking into the bridge, taking in everything he could at a slow pace. His lips were parted in a huge, impish grin only someone so young could accomplish. The ensign stopped only for a moment to look for his console, which, if anything, made him even more excited. Norman walked up to it as if it were a religious altar, slowly and carefully, lest he mar it in some way.  
  
The captain gave the young man a brief moment of indulgence; after all, this was the first starship the boy had probably ever been aboard. Snyder smiled to himself, he had probably acted the exact same way when he first set foot on a ship, maybe even more so.  
  
When Snyder saw that Norman was only sitting at the small bench behind his console, he decided to break the silence, "Are you just going to will your console to life, ensign?"  
  
Norman looked up in surprise. The poor kid probably hadn't seen him sitting in the center seat. "Uh, no, sir. Sorry, sir."  
  
"Don't worry about it. Just make sure you don't accidentally blow us up with a wrong keystroke." The kid froze with a look of absolute horror on his face. Maybe Snyder had crossed some line? He'd better repair the damage fast.  
  
"That was a joke, ensign."  
  
Norman looked up long enough for Snyder to see the horrified look melt into one of uncomfortable humor, which quickly became one of concentration as the tactical console came to life with a faint whine.  
  
"Tactical station reports ready for departure, sir." Norman said as if reading a script for the first time.  
  
"Thank you, ensign." Snyder said just as the turbolift doors opened once again to permit Ulysses' helmsman onto the bridge. Snyder recognized her instantly, Lieutenant Maria Gonzales. She was a woman of relatively short stature, but made up for it in sheer presence. Her radiant disposition, as well as damn good piloting skills, made her somewhat of a much sought-after officer in the fleet. Starfleet needed people more like her every day, if only to lighten a mood still darkened by the horrors of war.  
  
"Good morning, Captain." The lieutenant smiled before heading toward the navigation station just in front of the command seat. Snyder smiled back and offered his own acknowledgment, as well as young Norman.  
  
"Navigation reports ready to depart at Captain's discretion." The officer said with an air of such professionalism that Snyder could only smile at.  
  
"Thank you, navigation."  
  
The other crewmembers filed onto the bridge in short order. Soon, the ops station, sciences, as well as the engineering link were manned by excited crewmembers all ready to begin their new mission.  
  
When Snyder was sure everyone was accounted for, he pushed the button for the shipwide comm., and began to speak.  
  
"All hands, this is the Captain. If you haven't already, report to your duty station, as we are about to depart on our new mission." Snyder thought he could hear the ship itself hum with excitement at those words, as if it were a living being itself. But he was just abandoning himself to flights of the imagination. The ship was just humming with nothing more than normal power fluctuations and regulations; it was the crew that was ready.  
  
"Take us out, Lieutenant Gonzales." Snyder said with a tone much less dignified than what he would have liked, "Once we reach the edge of the solar system, se course for Starbase Seven at warp factor three."  
  
"Aye, sir." Came the response from the nav. Console.  
  
Outside of the hull of the great ships, a few straggling work bees were suddenly caught in a small shockwave as the thrusters of the great ship Ulysses began to slowly move out of its dock. The few umbilical lines that had been transferring fuel and other supplies snapped themselves off the ship just before they would have been pulled away from their housings.  
  
Ulysses surged forward on her own power, slowly gaining speed as her impulse reactors came online, feeding power to the massive sublight engines. When she was clear from spacedock, Ulysses shot forward like a photon torpedo from mars, out toward Jupiter and Saturn at tremendous velocities.  
  
Snyder stared in wonder at the sight before him. Stars at a distance seeming to whiz by, while the huge planets just before him loomed with huge girths, only to slip by as if they had only missed contact by a scant few meters. If anything, Snyder felt...giddy.  
  
"Approaching Sol system boundary, preparing to engage warp." Said Gonzales in her business-like manner.  
  
"Engineering, this is the bridge, are the engines prepared for warp travel?" Snyder asked over the comm.  
  
The voice of Commander Denning replied with a tone of good humor and expectation, "Everything's ready to go, sir. Just give the word."  
  
"Commander Denning, Lieutenant Gonzales, the word is given."  
  
As both people, one on the bridge, one down in engineering, worked in tandem to bring the warp engines online, the ship began to prepare itself for the journey. Bulkheads were locked, loose items were secured, and crewmembers began to brace themselves.  
  
Without warning, Ulysses shot forward at speeds nearly impossible to comprehend by the human mind. Space was literally warped around them, permitting the kind of speeds necessary for interstellar travel. Ulysses' warp nacelles flared to life for a brief second before dying out just as fast, but not before the ship was already at full warp speed.  
  
Lieutenant Gonzales looked from her console to report to both the captain and the rest of the crew, "Warp three engaged."  
  
"Then our mission has officially begun." Snyder responded. Everyone on the bridge, and possibly the ship, couldn't help but smile.  
  
**********  
  
"Hello, senior staff, to our first meeting for our new mission." Captain Snyder said to the already seated command crew as he walked briskly to his own chair at the end.  
  
Soon after going to warp and locking down all the major systems, Snyder had called for the first meeting of the senior staff. Everyone was there, Ensign Norman, Lieutenant Gonzales, Chief engineer Denning, and someone Snyder had neglected to meet, the ship's resident physician, Doctor Christina Hartford. She was a gracefully aging human woman, with a distinguished look about her and a kind of penetrating stare that could look deep into whoever she saw fit. Not a bad skill for a physician.  
  
Everyone had a PADD displaying all the facts given to Snyder by Starfleet concerning the nature of the mission, the types of missions that would probably be involved, and the types of mission requirements.  
  
After a few seconds of reviewing the facts, Snyder decided to get the ball rolling. "As you're probably aware, we are currently without an executive officer. But don't worry; one of the things we'll be picking up at Starbase Seven is our first officer. His file is loading to your PADDs now."  
  
Snyder looked down to see the face of a nice looking young man of possible Asian ancestry, but that had been long down the family line. "James Malcolm" was the name it listed above the personnel picture.  
  
"Cute kid," the Doctor said.  
  
"I think I saw this guy once while on my old ship," Denning said, staring at the picture intently, "Not a bad commander. He'll make a good Captain one day, but he's too inexperienced." He looked up to see Norman shooting him a deflated look, "Uh, no offense."  
  
"None taken," Norman responded coolly.  
  
Snyder began again, "Also, because of the possibility of a major medical crisis on a planet we may visit, I asked Starfleet to assign us a Doctor's assistant, if you don't mind, Doctor."  
  
"None at all." She said, looking over more mission protocols.  
  
"Good, good. Well, I'd better begin this little shindig by stating our mission profile." Snyder decided to stand up for more emphasis, "Starfleet has decided that it's finally time to bring aid to planets that have been long lost or forgotten because of the Dominion war and other conflicts. We are but the spearhead of the massive operation titled Operation: Recover. Our mission will be to bring whatever first aid we can to the people of a colony in serious need, and then move on."  
  
"Excuse me," Norman asked, "But what do you mean by 'first aid'? Are we going to be cleaning bruises and mending paper cuts?"  
  
"Not at all, ensign. First aid means that we will beam down whatever supplies or goods the people down on the planet we are visiting desperately needs to help in the immediate recovery. Other ships down the line will actually help to rebuild. Our secondary objective is to reestablish contact with the Federation by dropping off subspace communicators to planets that still wish to be part of it. If any others have other wishes, we are ordered to respect that choice, and move on."  
  
"Has Starfleet given us directives on how to deal with hostile rejection?" Norman asked.  
  
Snyder was temporarily stumped by the question. The answer was no , Starfleet hadn't said anything about violence of any kind that might happen over the course of the mission. He guessed they didn't see it as too important.  
  
"I'm sorry, Ensign, but Starfleet has given us no directives."  
  
"That's why they gave us this ship." Norman said indignantly  
  
"What do you mean?" asked Doctor Hartford.  
  
"What I mean is that our offensive capability is close to nothing: just five phaser banks and a pair of photon torpedo launchers. How do they expect us to defend ourselves?"  
  
"Maybe we aren't supposed to." Teased Gonzales.  
  
"I'm serious about this." The Ensign said, holding his PADD over his head for emphasis, "We're about to enter what could very well be considered wild space. Anything could be out here, and with weapons that can barely scratch paint, I don't hold much for survival."  
  
"Your concern has been noted, Ensign," Snyder said before turning toward the center of the table, to address everyone. "Our mission has just begun, and we are already facing some of the inherent problems. I'm sure Starfleet sent us and this ship out for a very good reason, and would not have wasted such huge resources for just laughs back home. We're going to do our job and make sure we do it well." Snyder looked over the command crew one more time before curtly adding "Dismissed."  
  
Everyone but Norman left the briefing room.  
  
"I'm sorry, Ensign if they didn't teach you this at the academy, but 'Dismissed' usually means 'leave'."  
  
"I'm sorry, captain, but I have to warn you about our limited capability in one other category."  
  
"And what is that?"  
  
"Sir, because we are heading into space that can very well hold anything, we may also be looking at the threat of an internal security breach, a stowaway at best, a hostile intruder at worst. And I'm afraid we don't have an adequate security team for the job."  
  
"Any recommendations?"  
  
"None at the moment, sir."  
  
"I'll consider it, Ensign. Now return to your duty station."  
  
"Aye, sir." The Ensign acknowledged and left the room.  
  
Good kid , thought the Captain, thourough, too. He'll make a good officer if he doesn't get so bogged down with worry.  
  
**********  
  
When his duty shift was over, Norman headed back to his quarters, and went directly for the letter from Section 31. Thoughts of Ulysses' gross lack of security deeply troubled him. After all, he was the senior tactical officer. And if the Captain wasn't going to do anything about it, he would just have to take the problem into his own hands. 


	7. Chapter 6

Crusade ch6  
  
"Computer, engage program Solvek alpha-one."  
  
Solvek stood calmly at the doors to Ulysses' one and only holodeck. He had been the first to requisition some time on the holodeck, for his daily meditation rituals only, but it was enough to convince the Captain that it was more necessary than the constantly energetic Ensign Norman and his requisition for "Advanced Hostile Intruder Training".  
  
Shortly after Solvek had gone back to his quarters after his first duty shift, he received two messages from Vulcan. One was from both his parents, stating how unhappy they were at his choice of going back to Starfleet, but they would support him nonetheless. And another message from the Masters at the temple, which had said how agreeable it was to see him taking on this responsibility without any exclamations of discomfort or displays of needless emotion about returning to Starfleet. The message also contained a holodeck program of the temple itself, to make his meditation cycles easier, which in itself also contained all of the files he had been studying at the time of his departure from the temple, as well as a compilation of the messages he had received at the terminal, which, like always, Solvek politely refused.  
  
After the computer beeped a final, long tone, the heavy doors opened with a loud creaking of metal, a sign that his was the first entrance to this room in quite some time. The sudden shift environment from Terran standard to the hot, arid feel of Vulcan made Solvek's senses spin for a brief moment. But Solvek regained his composure and began to explore the program.  
  
Every small detail had been captured in this program, Solvek noticed. Every building, every rock, every rough mark and patchy area made by years of existing in the desert as well as temple initiates and masters unwilling or unable to repair them had been captured. Even the distinct acrid odor of desert wind and plain, tasteless temple food being cooked assaulted his olfactory senses. Solvek made a note to congratulate the masters for their painstaking effort in making this program such like reality for him.  
  
Ignoring the lucrative feeling about going to his old quarters, or any of the hundreds of other areas he could have visited, Solvek made his way to the main meditation hall. It was a long, brisk walk, but well worth it. Everything from the smell of burning incense to the rusted gong held up by twin supports was recreated for him in the room. If he were human, Solvek might have wept for the sudden feeling of nostalgia and...what was the word...? Oh yes, homesickness.  
  
Kneeling in front of a large altar supporting a relatively small statue of a past master who, at some ancient time, founded this very temple, as well as a huge wooden carving of the Vulcan IDIC symbol, Solvek began his meditation.  
  
Solvek let himself slowly close his eyes and bow his head in the traditional meditation pose. Bringing his two index fingers up, and meeting their tips at the center of his forehead, Solvek let himself go to the infinite flows of logic and pure thought. It was proper to remain in that position until the meditation was complete, which could take a few minutes to several hours. And even though Solvek's mind was completely lost in the pool of logic that was his mind, he was acutely aware of the time. He knew that he only had less than an hour before Ensign Norman's turn on the holodeck was due.  
  
Solvek calmly meditated for just twenty-two minutes, forty-five seconds before things started to go terribly wrong, as they always did for him.  
  
His track of time was interrupted when he accidentally shifted his knees to a more comfortable meditation posture, a mistake only first-attempt initiates would make. Due to the already uncomfortable position, his knees reacted with an unexpectedly intense shock of pain. Normally, he or any other Vulcan should have been able to block the pain with harsh mental discipline, but not in a deep meditation. In this vulnerable state, he was helpless to what was to come next.  
  
Outside, his face suddenly contorted into one that would normally express intense pain, but in reality, he felt nothing. It took three seconds before he was able to put down the expression, but in those three seconds, he had lost his entire concentration.  
  
Like a dam broken, Solveks momentary lack of concentration let loose every emotion and illogical feeling buried deep within him. Every dark thought and every violent impulse burst from the cage set up in his mind, turning his calm pool of logic into a violent, churning sea.  
  
Solvek fought valiantly to regain his composure and thoughts, but the tide was too powerful. Already he could tell that this meditation was much worse than any he had experienced before. Every scream had not been one of pure anguish, but of triumph, as he had controlled his emotions just one more time, beating them back down into the dark pits of his mind. But why couldnt he heave down the thoughts now? His head was beginning to swim with so many thoughts that he nearly lost his grip of consciousness.  
  
But no matter what he did, Solvek could not control his mind anymore. He was a prisoner of his own thoughts. Every rational thought was being slowly swallowed and destroyed by the flood of violence and hatred, and Solvek watched it all with an eerie third-person perspective, as if his mind was torturing him with visions of his own mental destruction.  
  
Though he couldn't feel it, Solvek had long ago lost his position of meditation. Outside, he was lying face-first on the rough floor of the temple, twitching violently and making unintelligible sounds with his non- functional mouth. Without knowing, Solveks foot suddenly kicked out, knocking over the statue of the master, or, more precisely, sending it flying toward the IDIC carving. Both came crashing to the ground in a ruined heap, bathing Solvek in eons' worth of holographic dust and splinters. His rapidly moving body, totally under its own direction, became a bloody mass of twitching muscles and flesh as it moved over the broken splinters of the painting.  
  
"Help me! Help me! Help me! Help me!" was all Solveks ruined brain could do to vainly defend against the mental onslaught of emotion and disorder. His every defense had been broken, and he was slowly slipping from sanity, second by second.  
  
Solvek waited out the seconds before he would finally be lost to the comfort of sanity. It was ironic that, now, in all times, he could actually keep track of the time.  
  
**********  
  
Norman had been waiting for the damned Vulcan to exit his program for the last half hour. In the first few minutes, he had patiently waited, allowing Solvek some more badly needed meditation. But thirty minutes? Even a Vulcan wasn't so rude. Norman had to make a deal with the next crewman in line that she could use his time as well as hers tomorrow just to make sure he was there to chew out the rude Vulcan after he left the holodeck. He had it all planned out: He would argue that just because human weren't as strong or generally as smart as Vulcans. That didn't give them the right to act on their superiority. Yeah, that would really grip at his Vulcan conscience.  
  
But thirty minutes turned to forty, and then an hour. What was taking so long? In a vain attempt, Norman literally banged on the heavy doors, shouting "Hey, you in there! Come on out, will ya?" But, of course, there was no answer. Finally deciding that enough was enough, Norman used his security clearance to open the doors, and walk into the rude Vulcan's program.  
  
The sudden increase in heat and odd smell nearly drove Norman to the ground in their sheer magnitude. So this is what Vulcan looks like , Norman said to himself. Not quite like those old academy stories .  
  
Norman wound his way through the huge simulation. He had to give the man some credit for the complexity and level of detail he had put into the program. He even included some old scuffmarks on the floor! Now that was craftsmanship.  
  
Norman hadn't walked a few meters when he heard the unnatural-sounding moans and gurgles coming from the largest room in the temple. Racing over to it, Norman had to use all of his strength just to crack open the door. When he saw inside, it was all he could do to keep his breakfast from proudly displaying itself over his uniform. The image of the violently thrashing, gurgling, bloody Vulcan turned Norman's insides into a knot. All he wanted to do was just run away and let this poor man suffer his own fate, run away so he could never see, hear, or smell this gruesome sight again. Unfortunately, that's not what happened. Not at all.  
  
In a daze, Norman rushed to Solvek's side, and heaved with all his might to put the violent Vulcan on his back. Norman had to duck under a few mistakenly thrown punches and kicks, and did all he could from adding more bodily fluids to the already sticky floor.  
  
Instinctively, Norman shouted "Computer, end program!" and immediately after he said that, the floor, the ruined room, and the entire environment faded into oblivion. But the sticky mess was still there, and Solvek was still in his odd convulsions. Norman didnt know what to do. His arms were frozen in fear, and his voice was cracking under the pressure of the moment. He had to save this fellow officer, but how? His mind whirled and seemed to act as violently as Solvek's body. All of his years of training and conditioning, and he didnt know what to do. Maybe he wasn't ready to go into space after all; maybe he was still too young. He was utterly useless to everyone on the ship. Norman could see his vision becoming blurry as tears started to pool under his eyes.  
  
"I'm...sorry." Whispered Norman, between sniffles. Even though he had just recently endured four years of his life bravely surviving in a universe torn apart by war, Jacob Norman still was sputtering and nearly crying at this sight.  
  
Norman was broken out of his reverie when he heard the sound of the faint beep of an activated comm. badge. Norman looked down to see Solvek's green- stained hand resting on Norman's chest, just where his commbadge was attached. Norman looked down to look at Solvek's face, and for a brief instant, he thought he saw a glimmer of understanding, it was just one look that literally screamed HELP ME, YOU FOOL!  
  
Norman removed Solvek's hand and in a rushed whisper, Norman called the first place that came to his head:  
  
"Norman to sickbay, I have a medical emergency. Please beam us there."  
  
As the whine of the ship's transporters overtook any other sound in the holodeck, Norman thought he heard the sound of an extremely hushed sound of "Thank you." but it was overshadowed itself by the sound of Norman's helpless half-crying, both at his uselessness and how he needed someone else to do something so simple for him.  
  
**********  
  
Solvek awoke to the sound of a medical tricorder hovering just over his right ear. He tried to wave it away, but he was surprised to notice that his arms and legs were restrained tightly.  
  
"Dont struggle, Ill get you out." Came the voice of the ships doctor. Solvek wasnt aware of her name. "You were in shock when you were brought in here. We did all we could to help, but no matter what we did, nothing helped. We could only wait until you got better."  
  
In a hushed voice, Solvek asked, "How long have I been unconscious?"  
  
"Just under sixteen hours. At first, we were sure you had gone into some kind of coma or a natural Vulcan defensive sleep, but as the hours dragged on, we became increasingly worried."  
  
"Do you know what happened?"  
  
"As far as I can tell, you violently reacted to some extreme mental stress. You were lucky Ensign Norman found you when he did, or you would have died in just a few minutes more."  
  
Solvek was dimly aware of Ensign Norman walking in on him during his "reaction". It had taken immense physical effort just to raise his hand to try and shake Norman out of his pitiful display of emotion. He hadnt intended at all to activate his commbadge; that could have been something he could have easily done had he been able to coherently talk. But, the fact of the matter was, Ensign Norman had save his life, and was due thanks.  
  
"May I ask where Ensign Norman is at this time?"  
  
"He was beamed here with you with a slight case of shock at seeing you like that. I gave him a slight sedative and sent him back to his quarters for now. I'll send your thanks to him when he wakes up."  
  
"Thank you, doctor, but that will not be necessary, I am feeling quite improved." Solvek attempted to sit up from the biobed, but the firm hand of the doctor pushed him back down.  
  
"Oh no you don't. You are going to remain here for another twelve hours of observation to make sure you don't relapse."  
  
Solvek wished to tell her that this was a common problem, and that he really was perfectly fine now, but he told himself that it was a illogical to act against a trained medical professional. Solvek sighed and lay back down on the bed, and tried to rest as best as possible. But before he could slip into unconsciousness, the voice of Captain Snyder came over the comm., "All hands, this is the captain. We have arrived at Starbase Seven." 


	8. Chapter 7

Crusade ch7  
  
Commander James Malcolm watched from his office window as the most ungainly looking starship he had ever seen warped into standard orbit around Starbase Seven. If he wasn't already so angry with Starfleet for his unannounced reassignment to some rust-bucket ship charged to do some simple humanitarian work, he might have laughed at the ships design. What was it with Starfleet to go out of their way to shove him away from duties that he had grown accustomed to, and, for lack of a better term, liked? Malcolm shook those thoughts out of his head and watched a large Bajoran cargo ship brake from its docking moorings on one of the station's docking arms and slowly slip out from under the line of other ships waiting their turn.  
  
The sudden beep of his communicator pin broke him out of his reverie.  
  
Lightly tapping his pin, he said, "Commander Malcolm here."  
  
The ludicrously perky voice of Lieutenant Tebren, the stations communication's manager came through, "Captain Martin Snyder of the Ulysses is hailing your desk monitor, and he says it's urgent."  
  
Malcolm sighed. One of those pompous "Captains" of one of those cargo ships was probably just going to yell at him about the slowness of the docking procedures at his base again. He'd already had to calm the nerves of a dozen hotheaded captains of small transports today. And a dozen times he repeated the very same speech: "This sector was one of the hardest hit during the war, and recovery is still going slow. Please bear with us as we accommodate your needs." And he always ended it with a large, albeit fake smile. Boy was he getting tired of it.  
  
But this time, an actual surprise awaited him. Before Malcolm could sit down at his desk to transmit the same message to this new commander, an actual Starfleet Captain was already staring back at him from his side of the transmission.  
  
"Hello, Commander," the Captain began, unsuccessfully trying to hide a PADD with the already recorded message he was speaking, "As you know, your tenure as Commander of Starbase Seven is officially ended, and your tour of duty aboard the USS Ulysses has now begun. Please prepare yourself for transfer as soon as possible. You will be expected to hail us as early as possible to voice any concerns or conflicts you may have. Captain Martin Snyder out." And then the image of the Captain blinked away, replaced by the familiar Starfleet emblem.  
  
Hail them and voice concerns? Of course he could hail them and spew all kinds of gripes and whines about how unfair it was for Starfleet to come here, throwing their weight around and reassigning people without their consent. But then, he reminded himself, this is a military organization, for Pete's sake, and they can do whatever they wanted to the people who were a part of that organization, including sudden reassignments. After all, it was his choice and his choice alone that made him join Starfleet, and that meant they had total dominion over where he was to spend the next year or two.  
  
Shrugging his shoulders, Malcolm once again tapped his comm. badge.  
  
"Commander Malcolm to the crew of Starbase Seven, my time as commander of this little supply depot in the middle of nowhere has ended. I've been reassigned to the USS Ulysses , as you know, and they're finally here to pick me up."  
  
Tebren's voice came out over all of the other notes of concern, sadness, or just condolences. "I'm sorry to see you go, sir. I hope you enjoy yourself on the ship."  
  
"Thanks, everyone, that means a lot to me." Malcolm said, a slight quiver in his voice. It had taken him at least three months since he was assigned to the station to become accustomed to the crew and them to him. Malcolm always had that annoying habit of straying away from people he didn't know, unless it was absolutely necessary, and it always had hindered his advancement through the years.  
  
**********  
  
"We've docked, Captain." Gonzales said from her post. Snyder almost jumped at the statement, as he was nearly asleep when she had said it. It took four hours just to get clearances to dock at the damned station, and another six hours to find a place to dock. And sitting in the same chair for nearly ten hours straight always made someone a little tired.  
  
"Alright, Lieutenant. Secure all moorings and open the cargo bays. And inform the crew that unofficial shore leave is open to them during their off-duty hours, but I dont want any more than twenty crewmen off at a time."  
  
"Aye, sir." Came the response.  
  
"Open a hailing frequency to the station commander," Snyder ordered some barely-recognized ensign at the ops console, "Let's see our new XO."  
  
"Hailing frequency open, sir." The ensign responded.  
  
The viewscreen shimmered for a bit before coalescing into a picture of a pristine station manager's office. The only things out of place were an odd stack of shipping crates piled near the office's transporter pads. The only occupant of the room was hidden in the shadows behind the huge stack of crates, probably trying to push some item into another bag.  
  
"Whatever it is, Captain, its going to have to wait." Said the room's occupant.  
  
"Now see here, son, that's not a way you normally speak to a Starfleet Captain on a Starfleet station."  
  
The figure practically leapt from the shadows, revealing itself to be a relatively young man in a commander's uniform, looking very tired and haggard. The commander's eyes widened when he saw Snyder on his side. He tried to make himself look as presentable as possible by hastily running his fingers through his mess of hair atop his head, but that only seemed to make him look even worse.  
  
"Sorry, sir. I'm afraid you've caught me at a pretty bad time, what with packing up to board your ship and all." The commander tried to flash a disarming smile, but it fell on uninterested eyes.  
  
"Commander," Snyder began, "You received the notification of your reassignment three weeks ago. Surely you should have packed at least some essentials for your trip here."  
  
"Yes, well, sir. You've caught us at a very bad time here, what with reconstruction going on and everything. I just haven't had the time to pack a single thing is all. I was actually hoping you would come a little later."  
  
"That's too bad for you, Commander. We came here to pick up supplies and yourself, and if I dont see you reporting to me in one hour, well, consider yourself lucky if I dont bust you back down to the rank of crewman junior grade on my ship."  
  
"Yes, sir." Came the nervous response from the Commander.  
  
"Ouch." Whispered Gonzales.  
  
**********  
  
Norman had been lying atop his bed in his quarters ever since they arrived at the station. He hadn't set foot on the bridge since his incident with Solvek, mostly because of the doctor's insistence that he should take it easy for the time being. Being in shock sure wasn't what he expected it to be.  
  
Norman was also considering his involvement with Section 31. The letter clearly said to lay that small box right on top of his bed if he wanted in when they arrived at this station, which meant one thing: there was an agent on board. Norman wanted more than anything to just talk with them about the implications about joining the organization.  
  
His reaction to seeing just a little bit of blood and violence in Solvek was enough to make Norman nearly lose it himself, so what could seeing much more of it when he joined Section 31? That was the biggest thing running through his head. Could he take seeing things in this galaxy that might make him lose his own grip on sanity, as Solveks predicament had shown?  
  
There was only one way to find out. With a large heave, Norman nearly catapulted himself off his bed and onto the box sitting at its foot. Taking a slight breath, he picked up the small thing and carefully set it in the exact center of the bed, making sure to put the PADD with the letter on it inside. Making sure everything was perfect, Norman made a satisfied grunt and walked out of his quarters.  
  
He remembered the Captains orders of shore leave for anyone off duty, so he made his way to the transporter room, only to find it already occupied by at least a dozen crewmembers, all waiting in line to use the already packed transporter pad. He huffed and took his place in line.  
  
It was a short twenty minutes before Norman set foot on the transporter pads, and felt the familiar tingle of the beam disassembling his molecules and sending them over to the station.  
  
When he arrived, he saw an almost as long line of crewmembers waiting to leave the station as there were waiting to enter it. Norman followed a line of some others as they headed out of the cramped room and into the spacious interior. Unfortunately, just before he set foot on the threshold of the door, a particularly strong hand grabbed his arm and pulled him to his right. He turned to see a short, but very toned looking man in a Starfleet uniform. He had a suspicious look about him and a manner that would suggest he was being followed.  
  
"Walk slowly and calmly as you head for the first bar you see on your right," the short man whispered, "There you will see someone who wants to meet you. Tell them that you enjoy the green whiskey, and everything will be fine."  
  
Norman dumbly nodded as the man let go, and literally shoved him out the door. He walked hunched and as fast as his instructions would allow before he saw the bar the short man had mentioned, the "Mugato's Delight".  
  
Norman walked into the bar and started to look for his "contact", but only saw a rabble of various aliens and humans in various garbs, all absorbed in their own business, all except for a single woman sitting at the end of the bar, who was staring directly at him. Norman walked at a slow, deliberate pace to meet the woman. If these weren't such odd times, he might have actually walked like this to make sure she saw him before he attempted a smooth pickup. But, that was not going to happen.  
  
When he was within earshot, he heard the woman's voice ask: "What kind of drink do you enjoy on your time off?" A kind of question that would have normally been just small talk, but Norman could pick up on the serious undertones of the comment.  
  
"Oh, nothing special," he said as he sat himself down next to the woman, "Just the average green whiskey every now and then."  
  
That brought a smile to the woman's lips, as she slid a small glass full of green whiskey over to Norman.  
  
"Take a sip and no more." She ordered, "Make it look like we're having a good time."  
  
Norman obeyed the order, and let a small bit of the strong alcohol slide past his tongue. This was only his second experience with real alcohol, and his suddenly alarmed face showed it.  
  
"What is this?" he asked between gasps.  
  
"It's green," the woman responded, "That was just a cover to see if you were really interested in joining us."  
  
"Oh yeah," Norman said, "I guess you saw the box on the bed?"  
  
"Oh that?" she asked, "That was just to see if you could follow orders without question. You see, son, being in section 31 is all about tests of loyalty. You can't be too careful these days."  
  
Norman nodded, remembering those disturbing news reports about those creepy changelings and their ability to make themselves into whoever or whatever they wanted to. Come to think about it, he was still a little freaked out about the ease of the changeling's invasion.  
  
"Now, newbie, as a new prospective member, you get to ask me one question concerning this organization before your first assignment."  
  
His head spun with all the questions he could ask: Assignment, now? Who are you? How long have you been watching me? But only one question came through his lips:  
  
"Why me?"  
  
"Mister Norman, we have been watching you ever since you signed up to join Starfleet four years ago. We saw your little incident at the officer's ball, as well as your heroics during the war. Your kind is the perfect type for new agents in this group. That's all I'm permitted to say about you, Ensign Norman. Now, about your first assignment."  
  
"Hey, wait. An assignment now? But my ship is leaving in just a few hours, and I have to be there."  
  
"Don't worry, Ensign, you will be taken care of, no matter what. You've shown your desire to join this organization, and there is no going back now. You will take this assignment, or you will not leave this station."  
  
Norman didn't take long to realize she had left out the word alive from her statement.  
  
"Alright," Norman sighed, "What do I have to do?"  
  
"That's the spirit, recruit. Your first assignment as a Section 31 operative is to inspect a single ship docked here. She's resting at dock nine, and is refusing formal scans or inspections. Your job is to get in there and find out why they are refusing such simple procedures. Consider this a field exam."  
  
"Okay." Was all Norman could say during a long gulp. The woman agent tapped Norman on the back before making a hasty retreat toward the door of the bar.  
  
**********  
  
It took Norman quite some time to locate dock nine. It turned out to be a private sector of the station, run not by the Starfleet crew, but a corporation whose name Norman wouldn't dare to try and pronounce. When he arrived at the dock, an unfriendly sight awaited him: Naussicans. Lots of Naussicans.  
  
"This just took a turn for the difficult." Norman whispered to himself.  
  
Norman waited outside the docking tube for nearly an hour before he saw the Naussicans beginning to stir and move around in a regular pattern. It looked like a daily meditation or religious cycle. Eventually, the entire group of aliens actually moved into a line and began to recite some holy text in their native tongue. The only thing Norman noticed, though, was that every single Naussican eye was closed tight in prayer.  
  
Not particularly believing his luck, he slowly crept past the praying Naussicans and headed toward their ship. His only moment of concern was when he thought he saw one of their eyes open and looking directly toward him, but dismissed it as a trick of his nervous mind...at least he hoped it was.  
  
Accessing the Naussican ship was another matter. The door wasnt sealed by a complex lock or seal, but a simple rotating handle that, however easy it was for a Naussican to turn and open, it was nearly impossible for the young human to try. Norman tried all he could to force the door, but was met with failure every time. Even running to the door as fast as he could only resulted in a sore shoulder. Checking a wall chronometer, Norman nearly gasped when he saw that he only had one hour before Ulysses was scheduled to depart the station.  
  
Norman had to do something fast, so, using all of his strength behind one heave, he pushed the handle. It opened with a satisfying thud.  
  
Unfortunately, Norman's moment of triumph was turned to near defeat when he saw the Naussicans beginning to sit up and move after their prayer. He practically ran into the ship and slammed the door hopefully before they saw him.  
  
The Naussican ship stank of rotting meat and... old socks? But no matter the smell, Norman had a job to do. Fortunately, this was a Naussican cargo ship, so nearly the entire ship was some kind of cargo hold, locating any contraband wouldnt be difficult.  
  
Norman checked through one of the four cargo holds before his unbelievably good fortune ran out. A passing patrol spotted him as he popped out of a large cargo hold full of old stem-bolts. The guards began to shout to others about his presence before Norman could do anything. Within moments, the Naussicans were shooting bolt after bolt of lethal disruptor beams at his cargo pod of cover. Calming his nerves, Norman reached for his belt. Fortunately, his position as security chief allowed him to carry a phaser on any kind of away missions, even shore leave.  
  
Taking out the weapon, Norman set it to mild stun only, and began his own return fire, popping in and out of the cargo container to take a quick shot and retreat again.  
  
This was exactly not what he expected a first assignment to be like, and Norman made sure to remember to file a complaint to whatever Section 31 superiors he would get if he survived this encounter.  
  
After a few minutes more of shooting, Norman felt a little heat coming from the direction of the Naussican guns. He looked down in his cargo container to see that the side facing the aliens was actually becoming red hot because of the constant fire. He knew that he had to get out of there before the heat literally cooked him alive.  
  
Steeling himself, Norman increased the output of his phaser and juped out of the cargo container, just as a Naussican threw a small frag grenade his way. The explosion fortunately propelled him farther away from the alien's guns, but still burning his back a little. But there was no time to recoil in pain.  
  
Ending his short flight in a tuck and roll, Norman stopped behind a conspicuous looking cargo box stashed behind yet another stem-bolt container. Norman spared a moment to follow his old mission parameters and opened the box, and shut it almost as fast.  
  
The box was full of old-style Venus drug, a highly illegal substance, especially if it was laced with... what was it...? Oh yes, Arrakkean spice. Those two drugs together made a substance that, when ingested, could actually heighten the senses, but also made the user susceptible to any number of diseases, as well as a huge addiction problem that was extremely difficult to break.  
  
Just as Norman was about to get up and start shooting again, the sounds of more phaser fire coming from the ship's hatch assaulted Normans ears. It wasn't long before the phaser fire reached Norman's little section of the ship.  
  
Naussican guards began to retreat toward Normans position. Acting on instinct, he began to fire at the backs of the retreating guards, taking at least four of the retreating dozen before they noticed him. But before any harm came to Norman, the whole group of Naussicans were surrounded by a squad of Starfleet security personnel, led by the same Section 31 contact he had met earlier.  
  
"Stand down!" the agent said in a quiet, although commanding voice, "Even you, Ensign."  
  
Norman was a little surprised by the order, but complied nonetheless, setting his phaser on the deck like the Naussicans.  
  
"Naussican crew, you are all under arrest for firing on a Starfleet member, as well as smuggling illegal substances."  
  
The leader of the alien group suddenly shouted: "But we were only defending our ship from that intruder! And we would never smuggle any illegal drugs! Believe me, please!" The disparity in the Naussican commander's voice made Norman almost feel as if he were telling the truth, but the Starfleet crew would have none of it, and soon the entire alien crew was in shackles and being led to the station's brig.  
  
When the other aliens and Starfleet security left, Norman was left alone with the Section 31 operative.  
  
"Sloppy work, kid. You almost got yourself killed before you even found the contraband."  
  
"You were watching me?" Norman asked, dumbfounded.  
  
"Did you really think that pat on the back I gave you was for luck? It was a small tracer. Just one of the gadgets you'll be receiving when you get back to your ship. Welcome to Section 31."  
  
Norman smiled a bit before realizing that he had better get back to his ship. Saying a hasty goodbye to the now fellow agent, he ran out of the Naussican ship as fast as he could, sparing only a second to look at the wall chronometer. He only had two minutes before he was expected to be on the ship.  
  
Racing past milling people and aliens, Norman didn't care whether he ran into others on his mad dash to the ship, forsaking going to the transporter in favor of running directly to the docking port, which was just a few hundred meters away.  
  
Unfortunately, before he could get to the docking doors, they slammed shut, and began to pull away from the ship. Norman looked out the huge viewport to see Ulysses slowly pulling away from the station, beginning its maneuvers to leave the sector.  
  
Norman stood in mute horror. He had failed. He was going to be in a heap of Tiberian bat guano when Captain Snyder saw that he wasn't aboard. Fortunately, his fears alleviated just a bit when he felt the familiar pull of the transporter. Norman smiled as he actually rematerialized in his quarters, back where he had started.  
  
Norman looked toward his bed where he saw that the small box had been replaced by a larger case, which Norman didnt hesitate to open. Like a kid in a candy store, he tore into the case's contents, which, to his surprise, looked pretty ordinary: just a couple of tricorders, a phaser, and a pair of boots. And underneath it all, another letter.  
  
Ensign Norman:  
  
Welcome to Section 31. Im sure you have some questions, but be assured that they will be answered in due time. In this crate you will find some basic mission "gadgets", like a pair of boots specially modified for soundless walking, no matter the terrain, a few tricorders modified to scan low communication bands, and a phaser set on a special EM frequency, to take out any pesky electronics that may get in your way. Welcome to the fold, Norman.  
  
Oh yes, you can thank Agent Tebren for the assistance in transporting you back to your ship. Remember, you owe her.  
  
Section 31 operative 3482  
  
Norman looked over the case again and closed it, smiling to himself about joining a great new organization. Maybe now this ship would get the security it so desperately needed. 


	9. Chapter 8

Crusade Ch8  
  
The Ulysses was headed out toward the region of space recently dubbed the "wild lands" for its notable habit of taking in starships of all varieties and never letting them go. If Snyder could put an Earth twist on it, it was the galaxy's answer to the rumors of the Bermuda triangle, only this phenomena was a real and documented thing.  
  
The captain and his finally assembled command crew were going over the fourth set of padds handed out by Snyder before the meeting. The first two held the entire record of both Commander Malcolm, and the new medical assistant, a young Bolian female named Munz. Both officers were a little shy and embarrassed as snyder listed every single notable event in both of their careers, both good and bad. Fortunately, they weathered it superbly, and the general crew took on to the new arrivals quite fast.  
  
The third padd held a boring account of the ship's overall readiness written by Engineer Denning, Doctor Hartford, and Ensign Norman. The dull to the extreme report detailed the full list of supplies, fuel, and weapons aboard, as well as a list of a few engineering suggestions made by a Vulcan crewman... Solvek was his name if Snyder remembered correctly. Denning added it as a personal favor.  
  
After nearly boring the senior staff to tears with that report, Snyder handed out the fourth set of padds. It was the explicit orders given to him by the Admiralty just before Ulysses left mars. The beginning of it he had copied already during the first staff meeting, all about Operation: Recover and all that, but he had left the rest for this meeting specifically.  
  
"The first planet we are to visit was discovered just recently by a passing deep-space probe searching for more dilithium deposits just before the war. At first, the readings were dismissed, it was just another class M planet with no real value, until human lifesigns were detected."  
  
"Human?" Doctor Hartford echoed, surprised, "So far away from Federation space?"  
  
"Indeed, doctor," the Captain continued, "When the probe passed the planet, recognized here as Beta-Hydra, it discovered nearly three thousand humans inhabiting the planet, most of which were concentrated in a single settlement."  
  
"Did the probe pick up any modern energy signals?" Denning asked.  
  
"No, all it was looking for was dilithium and nothing more. The fact that it found the colony is a wonder in itself. Although, by the few visual scans the probe made of the surface, I highly doubt that they are either completely backwards, but neither are they using any modern technology extensively, either." Snyder brought up a close-up shot of the settlement on the planet. Since it was only a geological survey, the image of the actual buildings was fuzzy, but it was obviously large and made out of materials not easily harvested by simple machines. Towers and stone-cobbled streets were very common in the town, as well as what looked like a fortress in the center, large and imposing, looming over every other constructed building.  
  
"Wow," was all Norman could say, "Nice craftsmanship,"  
  
"I agree, ensign," Malcolm said, "But I must say that an imposing fortress in the middle of the city kind of sways my opinion toward them being at least a little hostile."  
  
"Maybe they just like stonework," argued Munz.  
  
"I don't know what their disposition is," Snyder interrupted, "But orders are orders, and we are going to send our first olive branch to Beta-Hydra whether they like it or not. End of story."  
  
After a brief silence, Denning spoke, "Has anyone considered the fact that maybe these people might want to be left alone? I mean, if they wanted to be found and known, they would have at least documented their travel here whenever they left proper Federation space for here, and probably might have sent their own probe at least into orbit to direct incoming space travel to them."  
  
"Good point, sir," Norman said, "But maybe they were in too much of a hurry to document their departure, and are incapable of launching a probe."  
  
"Yeah, they could be too sick to do something," Gonzales added.  
  
"No, the image shows no signs of anyone sick or of any kind of strife there. It looks like a tranquil village..." Doctor Hartford said.  
  
"I disagree," Munz interrupted, "The image is too fuzzy to be sure of anything about the population. For all we know, those cobblestones could actually be dead bodies."  
  
"If there was any kind of medical problem, the image as well as the scans would have shown it." The doctor countered, her face becoming a little red.  
  
"It was an image from a GEOLOGICAL survey! It can't detect medical cases!" Munz practically shouted.  
  
"There would have been something for the probe to pick up, Lieutenant!" Hartford exclaimed, using her superior rank to stop Munz from interrupting her, "There are ALWAYS signs."  
  
"People!" Captain Snyder shouted, obviously annoyed at the loss of control of the two doctors, "Your opinions have both been noted. We are heading toward Beta-Hydra as we speak. When we get there, if there IS a medical crisis, you two will be the first to know."  
  
"Aye, sir." Both doctors said in unison.  
  
"We will approach the Beta-Hydra system in less than nine hours. Until then, I suggest we get everything ready for our arrival. I want to be prepared for EVERY possible thing that could happen out there. Dismissed."  
  
Snyder watched his senior staff leave the briefing room, keeping an eye on Munz and Hartford. The two females were glaring daggers at one another, and Snyder was sure Munz was growling.  
  
**********  
  
Captain's log, stardate 53419.4  
  
The Ulysses has arrived at the Beta-Hydra system. Every crewmember is excited about the prospect of meeting a people who have probably not seen other humans for at least over a century. We cannot accurately scan the planet because of a strange ambient radiation that surrounds the planet and extends for a few kilometers into space. I don't want to risk the health of the crew, so I have stopped the ship well away from the radiation. Unfortunately, we are just out of transporter range. If we can do anything for these people, we're going to have to use the shuttlecraft.  
  
**********  
  
Snyder and Malcolm stood before the open space doors of the main shuttlebay. The ever-present hum of the magnetic shield that protected them from the vacuum of space was the only thing that made the stunning vista a little less beautiful.  
  
Both men were looking at the sparkling blue oceans of the planet's western hemisphere, at the snow-capped mountains taller than even Mount Everest on earth, and a canyon that could give the giant canyon on mars a run for its money. But the beauty of the planet was second to the sheer magnificence of the blue-green set of rings that surrounded the planet. The rings were in perfect circles in perfect order between the two colors. The sunlight that glinted on them made even Saturn's rings look dull.  
  
"It almost doesn't seem natural," Malcolm breathed.  
  
Snyder pulled himself together first. "Beautiful as it is, commander, we have a job to do."  
  
Malcolm took a last glance at the beautiful rings before turning back to his duties. In his hand, he held a list of all the first-aid supplies and emergency rations being loaded onto the first shuttle down to the planet. Captain Snyder, Doctor Hartford, and Engineer Denning were going to be the first team to visit the planet. Malcolm tried to explain the regulations specifically saying a Captain should not go on a mission like this, but he was promptly ignored. Snyder said he was going for any diplomatic situations, Hartford for medical, and Denning was going in case they needed to repair any failing technology. Denning had tried to convince Snyder to send Solvek, since he seemed to be more adept at repairing systems than he, but Snyder would have none of it.  
  
Already the away team had assembled on the open hatch of the shuttle, all waiting for the last of the supplies to be loaded. Malcolm heard Denning whisper to Hartford:  
  
"It's probably going to fly like a brick when we get airborne."  
  
"If we get airborne at all." Hartford whispered back, a light note of humor in her voice. Malcolm guessed she was just happy to be away from Munz.  
  
Snyder was already in the cockpit of the shuttle, readying all of the systems and checking over the inventory one more time before they left. Suddenly, over the comm., Snyder addressed Malcolm, "We're ready to go here."  
  
Malcolm understood, and left the open shuttlebay, going to the closed control room to see the shuttle off.  
  
"Commander," Snyder said when Malcolm got there, "You have the bridge."  
  
"Aye, sir." Malcolm said, just as the fully loaded shuttle slowly lifted off its landing struts and headed out into space.  
  
Malcolm watched them go, and when he was sure they weren't turning back around, reactivated the forcefield and proceeded to close to main doors. 


	10. Chapter 9

Crusade Ch9  
  
In a grassy clearing not far from the settlement, Snyder stepped out of the shuttle just as the door opened wide enough for him to exit. He brandished a tricorder like a weapon, scanning all he could around him before signaling to Denning and Hartford that it was safe to disembark. Denning complied slowly, carrying a shoulder pack full of handy tools. After a few moments, Hartford jumped out with as much energy and vigor of a much younger person, holding two small cases of medical supplies in each hand.  
  
"I thought we would NEVER get out of there," she said, the relief evident in her voice and rapidly improving posture. Snyder had taken what he thought was the smoothest entry vector to enter the atmosphere. Unfortunately, he failed to notice the rather large windstorm that suddenly blew in just before they hit the troposphere. It took every ounce of skill and courage they had to keep the shuttle upright and intact, as well as keeping the cargo from flying everywhere. Needless to say, they were all extremely grateful to be out of the vehicle and onto solid ground.  
  
After doing a preliminary check of the shuttle to make sure they could still lift off when their mission was over, the officers took time to inspect their surroundings and to take in the natural beauty of the place. If the orbital vistas were breathtaking, the view from the ground was truly spectacular. Even in the direct sunlight they were in, the marvelous rings were still visible, adding their own strange glow to the daytime sun. The mountains in the distance were tall and snowcapped, much like the Himalayas on Earth, complete with a peak that towered above them all. A nearby forest showed signs of recent lumber harvesting, but was still full of life and seemed to glow a brilliant shade of green. The only sign of human habitation at all, it seemed, was a faint trail through the grassy clearing, which wasn't even paved, just a dirt trail carved by years of somebody constantly walking the same route back and forth between the forest and whatever point B was.  
  
After a few moments, Snyder's tricorder began beeping in earnest. "I'm picking up a small band of people heading this way," he said, pointing the device in the general direction of the readings, "Perhaps we should say hello?"  
  
"I don't see the harm," Denning agreed.  
  
Caught up in stretching her legs, Hartford could only mumble an incoherent "Mmm Hmm."  
  
The trio set out on the trail as soon as Hartford was done stretching.  
  
**********  
  
Munz was extremely joyful the moment that doctor Hartford had left the sickbay. From the moment they had set foot in the small medical facility, they had been at odds. For instance, Munz preferred a more formal categorizing and filing of medical documents and samples, while Hartford insisted on her own methods, which, in all honesty was a barely controlled chaos of files and other medical items. Munz was totally oblivious as to how ANYONE could find something in that kind of mess, but Hartford was adamant.  
  
And now, with her gone, Munz proceeded to rearrange the sickbay according to her preferences.  
  
Munz was arranging a stack of padds containing the latest physical profiles of the junior engineering staff when she heard the soft swishing sound of the doors opening. The Bolian turned around to see Lieutenant Solvek not in full uniform, but in just a simple meditation robe, a look of concern was showing through his normally stoic composure. She realized that it was well beyond normal duty hours for the day shift, and scolded herself for not getting at least a small meal from the mess hall.  
  
"Forgive me, is Doctor Hartford in?" the Vulcan asked, searching the room with his eerily ice-blue eyes. Munz was sure that was not a common trait among Vulcans...it was just way too creepy. Even for Vulcans.  
  
"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, the doctor's on assignment with the Captain at the moment. Is there anything I can do?" Munz put down the stack of padds she was holding to make her appearance seem more open and friendly.  
  
Solvek regarded Munz for a few moments before walking toward her at a slow pace. He regarded her with his piercing glare as if determining if she was worthy of hearing what he was about to say. After a few moments, he slowly shook his head, "No, Doctor. I do not believe you can help me at this time. Thank you for your concern." With that, Solvek turned around and walked out of the sickbay.  
  
And if Munz didn't know any better, she was sure there was a tone of desperation in the Vulcan's voice.  
  
**********  
  
Snyder and his team waded through the hip-high grass in the clearing, following the signatures of the people the tricorder had found, whom seemed only interested in running away. The Starfleet team was hard-pressed sometimes just to keep pace with the natives, who seemed to have been at a dead run toward some unknown location ever since they were detected. Snyder guessed that they had seen the shuttle land and were heading home to tell their relatives of the strange occurrence. It was Denning who suggested they were running back to get their weapons.  
  
The last few minutes of the "chase" had been up a steep hill that seemed to have no end. And after running for nearly two kilometers, most of it uphill, the away team was getting a slight bit winded and a little agitated at the native's physical endurance.  
  
Finally, Snyder's tricorder picked up another reading, which Snyder read aloud.  
  
"According to this," he said between breaths, "the group has stopped running. They're just a few meters ahead."  
  
"Can we take a break first?" Hartford asked. "I don't think they'll mind if we don't show up for a few minutes."  
  
"We can't stop now." Snyder reprimanded, "We might have left a bad impression, landing basically right on top of them. I just want to apologize for any inconvenience we might have caused and see if we can get better transportation for our supplies."  
  
"Why can't we take the shuttle?" Denning asked.  
  
"If the reactions of this group are consistent with the whole population, how would they react to see a Starfleet shuttle landing in town square?"  
  
"Panic, probably. Maybe riots." Hartford said darkly.  
  
"Exactly. I just want to see if we can barter for at least a wagon and possibly a beast of burden to haul it. We've got plenty of things they might want."  
  
After Denning and Hartford said the customary "Aye, sir," the trio walked up the rest of the hill toward the group of natives, although at a much slower pace.  
  
**********  
  
Solvek stood outside of the quarters of Ensign Norman. Ever since the young human had saved him from that odd episode on the holodeck, Solvek had felt a debt to him. It was not a standard Vulcan practice, but it was among humans, he had read. Solvek learned he "Owed Norman one" and was determined to rectify the situation now, as well as ask him a small favor of his own.  
  
Solvek tapped the button to the side of the door, emitting the soft beep within Norman's quarters that announced a visitor. Getting no response, Solvek tapped the button again. It was nearly twenty seconds before Ensign Norman stood at his door, dressed in standard Starfleet sleepwear, and a general look of annoyance and fatigue evident on his eyes.  
  
"It's 0200 hours," the young man complained, "Can it wait for tomorrow?"  
  
"I am sorry, Ensign, it cannot." Solvek pushed himself closer to the door in case Norman decided to close it on him.  
  
After emitting a long sigh, Norman stepped aside, "Come on in."  
  
"Thank you, ensign." Solvek walked into Norman's quarters with measured grace and dignity, using all of his mental control to hid his reaction to the human's room: spotless. It was commonly known that young humans, especially males, lack tremendously in the cleanliness of their dwellings. It seemed Norman was the exception.  
  
"You want some coffee?" the Ensign asked, groggily.  
  
"No, thank you." Solvek responded, scanning the room and its sparse furnishings. Apparently, Ensign Norman either didn't value material possessions, an admirable trait, or he just did not own many items yet. Solvek assumed the latter.  
  
When Norman had replicated a strong-smelling brew from Andoria, he took a long sip and sat down on the only chair in the room.  
  
"Pop a squat anywhere."  
  
"I'd prefer to stand, thank you."  
  
"Fine." Norman took another sip, "Now what is so important it couldn't wait until tomorrow" Well, later today."  
  
"Ensign Norman," Solvek said, turning to face the sitting human, "I cannot begin to show how much gratitude I have for your heroic acts a few days ago. If not for you, I might have very well become the first casualty of this mission."  
  
"...Is that it?"  
  
"No, Ensign. It is customary on Earth, as well as the Klingon homeworld, Romulus, Gaxanar four, and Andromeda seven to acknowledge a heroic act done by one individual to save another individual by giving the saver a token of gratitude. In essence, Ensign, I "Owe you one"."  
  
"Well that's nice to know." Norman said, downing the last of the coffee. "Tell you what, the next time my life is in danger, we'll call it even when you come to my rescue. Ok?"  
  
"That is acceptable."  
  
"Is there anything else you need?"  
  
"One thing more." Solvek squared his shoulders before continuing, "Ensign, I fear I am losing all control of my Vulcan disciplines."  
  
Norman looked dumbfounded. He knew that emotional control was the paramount of Vulcan society, and to lose that control was one of the ultimate taboos. But the only recorded losses of control were those who were mentally ill or psychologically disturbed. Could Solvek be like that?  
  
"Have you seen a doctor?" Norman added meekly.  
  
"Only Doctor Hartford knows a small amount of mypredicament. Unfortunately, she is on the planet, and I saw no other logical person to tell."  
  
"What about the other doctor? What's her name? Moons? Mounds?"  
  
"Doctor Munz. And I determined that, while she is a competent medical officer, she is too inexperienced to handle my case."  
  
"And so you came to me."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well, I'll consider this a good mark toward us forming a friendship, Solvek. And, while I'm not a doctor, I'll do my best to help you get better."  
  
"Thank you, Ensign." With that, Solvek did a short bow, and left Norman's quarters without another word.  
  
When he was sure Solvek would not return, Norman jumped back onto his bed and proceeded to be embraced by sleep's warm hands. 


	11. Chapter 10

Crusade ch10  
  
Malcolm looked out the viewscreen and at the same image of Beta-Hydra he had been seeing for the last five hours. Ever since Captain Snyder and his team had left the ship, things had taken a turn for the boring, and it showed on every crewmember. Lieutenant Gonzales was sitting at her console, pushing buttons and relaying commands to the computer in an attempt to look busy. Ensign Norman was going over hostile intruder simulations for the sixth time in ten minutes, and a plethora of other officers and crewmen were doing every job necessary to keep Ulysses functional and secure. The only person without a job to do was Malcolm himself.  
  
After a few more minutes of discovering the infinite possibilities of Captain's Chair fabric, Malcolm sighed, stood up, and stretched his cramped muscles. The popping sounds that emitted from his tired joints turned everyone on the bridge's attention toward him. The commander emitted a sheepish smile and blushed a bit before giving a stern look to the staring crew, ordering them to get back to work. When the crew went back to their duties, Malcolm shuffled his tired legs over to Norman's console.  
  
"How're the sims coming?"  
  
"Fine, sir." The ensign replied without turning to face the commander, "The projected outcome of all armed intrusions into Ulysses have all met with swift actions, and dealt with in less than an hour."  
  
"Good, good. Glad to see you're so diligent-"  
  
"Except the Borg," Norman interrupted.  
  
"The Borg?"  
  
"We can hold off every armed intruder in less than an hour EXCEPT the Borg."  
  
"Do you expect the Borg to attack us on this mission, ensign?"  
  
"No, sir, but I thought it might be a good thing to go over how we would fare against a cube, in case one came our way."  
  
"Ensign, we are in a Noble-class vessel. We'd hold like a piece of tissue paper if we engaged a cube. Please don't waste valuable computer power running frivolous exercises again."  
  
Norman sighed loudly before shutting down the Borg simulation, and moving on to routine security checks. It took a moment before the young man added "Yes, sir."  
  
"Glad to see we're in agreement."  
  
Malcolm proceeded to converse a bit with the rest of the crew on the bridge for a few minutes before Gonzales suddenly shouted over the dull milling.  
  
"SIR!"  
  
"What...?" Malcolm asked as he tuned toward the viewscreen. His eyes widened when he saw it.  
  
The beautiful panorama of the Beta-Hydra's rings were twisting and flashing in random intervals. And a rushing cloud of what looked like plasma energy was heading toward Ulysses at an incredible rate.  
  
"Sheilds!" Malcolm ordered.  
  
"Captain, our proximity to the rings is interfering with our tactical systems," Norman reported, "The computer hypothesizes that our moving within the range of the rings is the reason why we can't get a good sensor lock on the planet, and why it's reacting."  
  
"Why now?" The bridge was starting to rumble and quake as the inertial dampers struggled to keep the ship in relative position.  
  
"I don't know, but we can't raise shields or fire weapons while we're still here."  
  
"Move us out of here, Lieutenant!" Malcolm ordered the obvious.  
  
"The helm is sluggish in the storm!" Gonzales shouted over the growing noise of the bridge.  
  
Malcolm looked on in horror as the approaching plasma stream grew larger on the viewscreen. Lights dimmed as the warp core took power from every available system just to keep the ship in one piece. The computer' voice cut over the chaos with a not-too-subtle warning:  
  
"Warning, unstable plasma stream ahead, please take caution. Structural integrity is at ninety percent and falling."  
  
"How's that maneuver coming, Lieutenant?" Malcolm shouted.  
  
"It's like trying to push a cart with square wheels here, sir, it's just too slow!"  
  
Malcolm watched the storm grow ever larger on the viewscreen.  
  
**********  
  
Snyder's away team reached the top of the large hill nearly an hour later, tired and panting from the physical exertion. But finally, the ground leveled and it was a smooth walk. Just ahead was a small camp, with crude tents set up near a small stream that ran directly into the now distant woods. A small curl of smoke wafted over a small fire in the center of the camp, and the smell of roasting meat hit the team's nostrils, causing all three stomachs to rumble with the hunger they had forgotten since they began the chase.  
  
"That smells so good!" Hartofrd exclaimed, doubling her pace to get to the food.  
  
The trio finished their walk with a new vigor, if only to get some food.  
  
At the camp, the trio found not a sign of life. Even the smell of food had started to fade, as the team noticed that the fire had been hastily put out, and the rotisserie sticks were scattered around the dark pit.  
  
"Damn." Hartford said with resignation.  
  
"I don't get it, "Snyder said, "The tricorder says they're right on top of us..."  
  
Snyder didn't finish his statement, because at that exact moment, a large club suddenly hit the back of his head with stunning force. Before his vision went completely dark, Snyder saw similar fates befalling his team.  
  
**********  
  
Ulysses struggled out of the incoming plasma storm like a prehistoric animal caught in tar. Since her shields weren't in operation, the first few licks of superheated matter began to blacken her pristine outer hull. Flames began to eat away at the hull plates like acid, which would inexorably expose the innards of the ship, and the helpless crewmembers. The ship creaked and groaned like an old wooden ship on Earth, threatening the crew with a sudden hull rupture, or worse, total decompression.  
  
Gonzales worked the helm furiously. Everything she did was met with such an extreme slowness, that it seemed that all of her movements just brought the ship further into the storm. But, like a sudden flash of plasma, she got an idea.  
  
"I'm going to activate emergency thrusters!"  
  
"What?" Commander Malcolm shouted back, "You can't do that in this storm! We'll fry!"  
  
Pretending not to listen, Gonzales shouted "Hang on!" and pressed the thruster control switch.  
  
From many outer points along Ulysses' hull, small blue flames emerged, slowly pushing the ship toward the oncoming firestorm. The already volatile storm took in the miniscule energy of the thrusters and took it into its own, turning the violent firestorm into a maelstrom of uncontrolled power.  
  
Malcolm nearly wept in horror at the ineptitude of that move. The ship shook even fiercer than before. Consoles sparked and died, crewmembers fell and took serious injuries, and Ulysses herself was literally falling apart. In a moment it would all be over...  
  
Until it ended as suddenly as it began. The energy dissipated so smoothly, that no one seemed to have paid attention. Malcolm opened his eyes slowly as he began to realize that he was still alive. At the helm, Gonzales was staring into space, her hair amiss and her uniform darkened by sparks, but otherwise alive. Ensign Norman was clutching his console for dear life, his knuckles white with effort, but he was also coming to his senses. The rest of the crew followed suit slowly, collecting damage reports and trying to return the ship to normal.  
  
"Report," Malcolm weakly ordered.  
  
"All ship functions returning to normal, Sir," Norman reported in a voice just a weak as Malcolm's.  
  
"Good." He said before getting out of his chair again. Turning to it, he noticed a rather large collection of dust and other particulates burned on the back of his chair. If he had been standing, or at least turned at any other angle, he would have been cooked alive. He silently thanked the chair. "I'll call a senior staff meeting when we get this all sorted out."  
  
As Malcolm walked off the bridge, he watched the shaky crew try to do the first patched of work on he damaged ship, and the very pristine planet in the distance, mocking them in its serenity. 


End file.
